Ashes of the Phoenix
by ginOO7
Summary: Set 10 years after the series ended, a Company agent returns unexpectedly from Serbia, and his treacherous intentions result in the death of Control at a New Year's Gala. McCall and Kostmayer must unravel a web of deceit to avenge their friend and bring his body home.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: If you would prefer to read this on a Kindle or other mobile device, the author is happy to make a formatted .mobi version available to you._

* * *

_Concerning Emperors _– Vachel Lindsay, c. 1911

_I. GOD SEND THE REGICIDE_

_Would that the lying rulers of the world_

_Were brought to block for tyrannies abhorred._

_Would that the sword of Cromwell and the Lord,_

_The sword of Joshua and Gideon,_

_Hewed hip and thigh the hosts of Midian._

_God send that ironside ere tomorrow's sun;_

_Let Gabriel and Michael with him ride._

_God send the Regicide._

_II. A COLLOQUIAL REPLY: TO ANY NEWSBOY_

_If you lay for Iago at the stage door with a brick_

_You have missed the moral of the play._

_He will have a midnight supper with Othello and his wife._

_They will chirp together and be gay._

_But the things Iago stands for must go down into the dust:_

_Lying and suspicion and conspiracy and lust._

_And I cannot hate the Kaiser (I hope you understand.)_

_Yet I chase the thing he stands for with a brickbat in my hand._

* * *

It was minutes before midnight, 1998. Tom Jeffords' party was in full swing at a magnificent private residence in the Hamptons, replete with a 12-piece orchestra playing Auld Lang Syne. Inside, Jeffords was magnanimously hosting one of the largest celebrations thrown for Company personnel in years. Agents were letting loose with holiday cheer, supplemented by the generous libations Jeffords had provided. Guests were dressed up in formal evening attire, awaiting the New Year countdown, celebrating with smiles, flushed cheeks, and comradery from the field and the office.

A large group of people was clustered on the second floor, just outside the study, looking down on the throngs in the main hall from above. Robert McCall was enjoying the evening with his date, Dr. Olivia Parker. He glanced across the room and saw a young male agent engaging Mickey Kostmayer in conversation, but Kostmayer was more interested in the attractive woman on his arm. McCall noticed the young man nod and grin at Kostmayer before the man picked up another glass of champagne from the waiter to deliver to Control's empty hand. The young agent's actions reminded McCall to collect two glasses of champagne for himself and his date – they didn't want to be the only one not toasting at midnight.

On the floor below them, McCall heard Jeffords' exuberant voice, "Here's to the old year," he shouted as everyone clinked their glasses. Jeffords stalked over to the grand fireplace burning near the back of the room on the main floor and smashed his glass into the fire after finishing off the champagne in it. "Ten, nine, eight," everyone shouted together, ending in a tremendous burst of applause as the clock ran twelve midnight. "And here's to the new!" Jeffords repeated his actions with a new glass of champagne.

Robert exchanged a brief kiss with his alluring date and walked over to give a pat on the back to Mickey. He continued his route around the room, wandering over to his old friend in the midst of rousing cheers of "Happy New Year" throughout the estate. "All right, I guess Kostmayer has recovered sufficiently," McCall jerked his head toward Kostmayer.

Control threw back the champagne without saying another word. They had had heated words over Kostmayer a few minutes before.

"You remember Olivia?" McCall asked, drawing his date's hand closer.

"Always a pleasure, Dr. Parker," Control inclined his head.

McCall stretched out his hand, ready to wish Control a happy New Year. Control also extended his arm to shake Robert's hand but abruptly changed the direction of his arm to reach out for Robert's shoulder, trying to steady himself as his face fell from a smile to dark seriousness.

"Control?" Robert asked as he heard Control's sharp intake of breath, felt Control leaning on him heavily, and saw him clutch his chest.

"Mickey!" Robert yelled above the cheers of the crowd downstairs. "Help me get him into the study." Mickey nodded and took Control's left arm as Robert got his right and took him into the study, lying him down on a leather couch. Control shut his eyes as his reaction became more violent, his hands jerking as shudders wracked his body. Olivia stepped in with cool authority and asked for room as she removed his bow tie and loosened his collar.

"Does it feel like there is a heavy weight on your chest?" she asked him intently. He nodded, gasping for breath, and Olivia noticed that he had broken into a heavy sweat. Taking his pulse, she could tell it was far from normal as it jumped from very quick beats to indefinitely slow ones. She yelled for someone to call an ambulance, realizing Control was most likely having a heart attack. The young agent McCall had seen hanging around earlier entered the room with a phone. He called an ambulance as Control appeared to get even worse. A moment later, Control had lost consciousness and had stopped breathing entirely, and Olivia swore under her breath. McCall was standing close enough to hear her mumble something about cardiac arrest, and she began to perform CPR on him. Tilting his head away from her and lifting his chin, she opened his airway and listened for breath. When nothing came, she double checked his unmoving chest and pinched his nose closed so that the only airway would be through his throat.

McCall stood there, feeling as if he could do nothing, and he motioned to Kostmayer to guard the door and make sure no one else came in – there were already too many people in the room. The main crowd still didn't know what had happened, but McCall didn't want anyone to panic or overrun the room.

Olivia performed mouth-to-mouth, exhaling two large breaths and checking the carotid artery on the side of his neck for a pulse. Feeling none, she quickly waved at a young female agent who was standing nearby to help. The young woman kneeled at Control's chest and laced her hands over one another. She positioned them just above the base of his breastbone while locking her arms in a straight position. She looked up at Olivia, waiting for a signal.

"Go!" Olivia commanded.

The young woman shifted her weight onto her hands, watching Control's chest depress about two inches. She counted slowly to five pressing down hard with each count. Olivia again tried to breathe life into Control's warm body, to no avail. "Again." The procedure kept going on until the paramedics arrived.

Luckily, an ambulance was close by and a few minutes later, it had arrived. The crowd was finally alerted to a problem. They cleared the area to the stairs relatively quickly, letting the paramedics pass. In the meantime, McCall and Kostmayer cleared the study of bystanders, but as the paramedics were bounding up the stairs, Robert quickly pulled back Control's tuxedo jacket and pulled out Control's Beretta 92 Compact L Type M, a pistol hidden in a shoulder holster, placing it inside his own jacket.

Olivia noted McCall's actions but did not pause as she shouted to the arriving paramedics, "Cardiac arrest. The patient's heart and breathing has stopped. He's not responding to cardiopulmonary resuscitation. I need a defibrillator." The two paramedics glanced at each other. One ran back to the ambulance to get it and the other took over from the young agent doing chest depressions. Olivia unbuttoned Control's black vest and white shirt, ripping aside his black suspenders to allow ample access to his chest. She nodded toward the paramedic holding the defibrillator. The gel had already been smeared over the surface; so she rubbed them together waiting for the paramedics nod. He did so, and she jolted his chest. Control's body reacted violently, but his heart would not respond. "Come on," she gritted her teeth and rubbed the electro-shock equipment pads together again, setting the level of energy set higher, but to no avail – his heart refused to start again.

"Ma'am, please step aside," the other paramedic had returned as chest compressions continued. "We've got to transport him to the hospital immediately."

Olivia turned to the paramedic sharply, "I'm a physician."

"Thank you," he said curtly, "we'll get it from here."

"He's flat line," she heard the other paramedic say, as he finished putting in an IV. The two paramedics exchanged telling glances as they continued to work.

The paramedics lifted Control onto a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. "I'll ride with him," McCall stated, solemnly, but the paramedics informed him that they had another patient in the ambulance and could not take any passengers.

As they swung the ambulance doors slammed shut, everyone present could hear the EMT say, "I'm calling it . . . . Ed – morgue entrance."

The room stood motionless for a moment, in complete shock. Mickey shook his head – there was nothing more they could do. Before McCall left, he noticed Control's bow tie lying on the floor next to the couch. He picked it up gently and gingerly placed it in his pocket.

The New Year had started, the last year of the millennium. McCall gazed listlessly into the distance. Surely, this couldn't be happening. _What the hell had just happened? _He stood in the doorway in silence. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, until out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young woman bounding up the stairs, two at a time.

"What happened?" she said, breathlessly.

McCall couldn't bring himself to answer, so she glanced at Olivia, who had fury written all over her face. "They shouldn't have stopped, even if he was flat lined," she looked at her watch, frowning at the time.

"Stopped what? What do you mean flat lined?"

Mickey grabbed the young woman and gently spun her around, "It's Control. He's . . . he's dead. Heart attack."

The woman gasped, her hazel eyes growing wideand her face losing some of its color. She closed her eyes as her head sank back. "Four days," McCall heard her mumble as she placed her face in her hands.

McCall turned to leave, but the woman stopped him with a hand. "You're Robert McCall?"

"Yes," he said, warily.

"We need to talk," she said, clipping her words in a staccato fashion, allowing them to carry a sense of urgency and authority.

McCall shook his head, "Now isn't a good time . . . ." his voice trailed off as he noticed the woman digging furiously through her pockets. She slapped an envelope against his chest.

"I've a note for you – from Control."


	2. Chapter 2

Several weeks earlier: late November, 1998

_Nippy_. _No other way to describe D.C. in November._ The skies were gloomy, but only a few snowflakes drifted in the air. The district's normal bustle had quelled in anticipation of a large storm, but the storm hadn't delivered – not yet. The city seemed eerily quiet, waiting with anticipation.

The gray-haired man pulled his black, leather gloves on a little tighter as he watched a golden-curled, little girl skipping around the grounds of the Washington monument. He turned toward her with an unhurried stride, crunching frozen grass with each step. At the edge of the monument, he spied Clint Hughes, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man, leaning against the monument and watching his approach with vigilant eyes. The older man ran a gloved hand through his gray hair, shaking out a few snowflakes which were lazily drifting down from the overcast skies. He pulled a cigar out as he approached and nodded, "Hello, Clint."

The other man straightened up, pushing his weight off the stone. He didn't say anything, just nodded a greeting and reached into his coat to pull out a lighter.

Control took the proffered lighter to light the cigar, "I see you haven't kicked your habit, either."

"Naw," Clint rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, "been able to kick most of the other bad habits though."

Control drew a long puff on the cigar and handed the lighter back. Clint was an interesting case. He had been a superb agent until one day, _that _day. _That_ _day_ destroyed a lot of good agents, and Clint was the only one that had walked away. Clint had been lucky, _too lucky_, some had thought. Clint had come back, followed all the protocols; nevertheless, even though he hadn't arrived in a casket, that day had destroyed him too.

Hearing the news, Control had met Clint, fresh off the plane at Andrew's Air Force Base. Control had never known Clint to say more than a few words at a time; he was a farm boy from the Hi-Line in North Dakota. Clint was used to the quiet prairie, rolling hills, and hard work. He had made a good agent. _No, a damn fine agent_. When Clint had gotten off the plane at Andrews from Russia, he'd said even less than usual, but his eyes were uncharacteristically dead. Seven agents had been behind him on the CAT transport plane, each in a closed casket. He and Clint had taken a small puddle jumper in silence all the way to New York.

After walking into Control's office, Clint sat down and unbuttoned his jacket, revealing brain matter clinging to his shirt, surrounded by dried, crimson stains. He had worn it all the way from Russia, in the plane, the car, up the elevator, and it didn't even seem to register to Clint that he should change his clothes. That had been the beginning of an eleven hour debriefing. As always, Clint was matter-of-fact and professional during those eleven hours, describing the situation in grueling, gruesome detail.

Clint had held it together for a few months after the incident, but he slowly began to unravel. Silently and alone. Control had begun to get reports in from other agents - hard drinking, other substances. After a while, other agents began to refuse assignments with him. Overnight, he'd become a liability. Unsurprisingly, H.R. sent up a memo: Clint Hayes had been relieved from his duties, permanently, due to "emotional instability." He was fortunate, declared code yellow by the Company. The Princeton boys had him evaluated, and his suicidal tendencies were potentially harmful to himself - but no one else - and his intelligence information was stale. He was classified as a negligible threat to Company interests. _How nice to be classified as worthless. _Company psychologists thought Hughes would commit suicide, if not by his own hand then a slow death by drink.

Control had periodically sent agents to check on Hayes, primarily to make sure he was keeping out of trouble. Clint's wife had left him, and he had lost custody rights to his children. His meager disability pension from the Company bought booze but not much else.

Purely by coincidence, Clint had unexpectedly run into Control a little over a year ago. The same blond-haired, blue-eyed child had been hiding behind Control's pant leg, peaking out at the stranger. He noticed surprise flash over Control's face, before his face was unreadable again. "Yours?" he'd asked, innocently enough.

Control snorted, "Hardly. She's a loan – I've got a pickup later."

Clint shook his head. There had been rumors around the Company that agents could borrow kids (for a premium, of course) when they needed to look "normal" during a meeting, drop-off, or pickup. He hadn't believed the stories until that moment. "You're a goddamned son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"

There it was again. Clint saw a flash of anger flicker over Control's face before disappearing as quickly as it had come. Control waived his hand dismissively, "It's a job. Speaking of which, what are you holding down?"

Clint narrowed his eyes, "Odds and ends. Nothing . . . satisfying."

Control quietly waited, until the uncomfortable silence forced Clint to add, "I'm not very well qualified to do much anymore."

"You were one of our best men in the field, Clint."

Hughes shook his head, "Not good enough. Not _that_ day."

"You know," Control had stopped him with a hand, "I never did tell you that you were considered for the Intelligence Star, bringing those men and women home under very . . . trying circumstances."

Clint's eyes hit the ground, but he said nothing.

"Listen, Clint, I have a . . . resource . . . I'd like to send your way. She's a specialist - security clearance for everything – I'd like you to talk to her. It'll be on my dime."

Clint shook his head, "I don't want back in. I'm done with that now."

Control's eyes hardened, "I'm not asking for you to come back in. You're not an asset to anyone right now."

Hughes backed up a step, his throat burning with anger. Before he could respond, Control held up a hand. "You'll see her," he said matter-of-factly. "And when – if – you get your life cleaned up, I have a _private_ job for you."

That had been last year. In one short year, Clint had dramatically turned around his life, rekindled his relationship with his wife – not yet enough to turn his divorce around but enough to see his children again - and he had taken on the job Control had alluded to that autumn day. He wasn't cured; he still had wretched nightmares, and his will trembled when he saw a bottle of vodka, but his life was on a clear upswing.

Clint was providing private security now, a situation that suited his personality and allowed him a far more stable lifestyle than the time he had spent with the Company. It had, surprisingly, worked out well, and he admitted to himself that what he had needed so badly was just to talk to someone about _that day_, to anyone who could listen – who had the clearance to listen, not to the facts but to what it had done to him, for someone who could let him sob, let him get everything from _that day_ off his chest, where it had laid so heavily for so long, strangling his life.

Now, in the gray stillness under the Washington monument, he looked at his old boss again. Control handed Hughes a handwritten note with a number scrawled across it, "New bank account. The balance is good for at least five years. Don't go and spend it all at once."

Hughes took it and whistled softly. "Five years in advance is a little unusual . . . anything I should know about?"

"I am juggling some . . . delicate matters at the moment." Control's face was grim.

Hughes took in the information in silence. It must be pretty bad if Control was prepared to advance him five years of pay. "Still got the regular security detachment?"

"Yes," Control nodded slightly. There was something else in his body language.

Clint read between the lines. Either Control didn't trust his regular security detachment or he thought there was something they might not be able to handle. "Get Isra, if you can find her. There's no one better," Clint noted, thoughtfully.

Control looked toward his silver Bentley parked nearby, "She's taken the tedious position of driver, for the moment." His face lightened. "I think it is driving her crazy."

Clint chewed on this information. If Control had already called in Isra, then it must be serious. She didn't normally handle security – her specialty was terminating the enemy with . . . extreme prejudice. She was one of the Company's best. And since she thought like the best of them, she had also excelled in preventative measures. But she was headstrong and preferred to work alone; she hated working with more than a few people at a time. If Control was using her for inner circle security, he was in deep waters, indeed.

Control changed the subject by cocking his head toward the child. "How's her parents?"

"They send their regards – they apologize for missing you. They were a bit distraught over the flights and thought they might be stuck on this side of the equator if they didn't take the early one."

"I'm more interested in what they won't tell me on the telephone."

Clint shook his head slowly, "They hate the security procedures . . . try to be normal." Clint sighed. "It's better now; they've had time to get used to me. Slowly built up trust. She," he nodded to the girl, "has everybody wrapped around her little finger."

Upon spotting Control, the child had run back to the two men, rosy red cheeks smiling under her twinkling blue eyes, arms outstretched for a hug and demanding attention. Control put out his cigar and picked her up with a grin, keeping her close and warm in the nippy winter air, smiling at her. "She sure does."

Control gazed into her blue eyes and noticed the resemblance again, his smile slowly fading as his thoughts drifted back in time. _Another little girl runs in from the summer heat, her eyes twinkling with delight. "I bought you a present!" _

_"What is it, doll?" _

_"A necklace!" _

_He smiled, chagrined, "you bought me a necklace?" _

_"It's gold! Mommy helped me pick it out!"_

_Your mother helped you pick out a necklace for me?" He feigned shock._

_"Don't you like it?" A crestfallen look, waiting for an answer. _

_"Well, it's perfect. I'll put it on right now. But we'll need someone a little taller than you." He winked at the little girl. Two well-manicured hands clasped the chain around his neck._

_"See," he picked her up, "fits like a glove."_

_"Don't take it off!" _

_"I won't," he laughed. _

_"Promise?" _

_"Promise."_

Clint's cough snapped him back into the present and its responsibilities. Control put the girl down gently. "I've got to be back to New York by nightfall, I'm afraid. I'm waiting on a few things, so I may have to cut it short. Go get yourself some lunch, Clint. We'll meet you over at the Capitol in a little while." Hughes nodded and walked toward Old Ebbitt's Grill without another word.

Control glanced at the monument towering above him for a moment, taking its tremendous stature in stride. As a historical landmark, it had never interested him much – a simple obelisk, symbolic of the American strength. Few noticed the color change in the massive stones around the middle of the monument – a testament to the Civil War. Nevertheless, he preferred, especially considering his legal background, the Supreme Court. Its architecture was a powerful representation of justice and the moral arc of the universe. _The moral arc of the universe is sometimes the only redeeming thought in my line of work_, he thought to himself. He would see the Court from a distance today, but it wasn't his destination. He took the girl's hand and waved toward the building looming in the distance. "We're going to run over to the Capitol if you are up for it. Are you cold?"

She shook her head, released her mitten from his gloved hand, and skipped away in front of him on the Mall. _Such carefree independence_, he thought, a wry smile crossing his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Isra was still vigilantly watching him from the cozy warmth of the Bentley.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they arrived just outside their destination. The little girl looked up past the flickering image of the Capitol in the reflecting pool to the gleaming white of the marble steps and the building beyond.

"What happens here?"

"This is where Congress meets. The Senate," he pointed to the left, "meets in that wing and the House," he pointed to the right, "meets over there. This is where they make the laws, sweetheart."

"Like speeding laws?"

Control laughed, knowing her parents must have been pulled over for speeding sometime recently. "Something like that."

Her thoughts had already moved on. "Is this where the president lives?"

"No, he lives down the street in the White House."

The little girl blinked, staring up the daunting building. She pointed at the front entrance with a woven mitten, but Control shook his head, familiar with the worn corridors of the Capitol. "I'm afraid that entrance is closed, my dear. But this," he pointed toward a smaller entrance, "this is where the President takes the oath of office during his inauguration." They walked slowly up the marble steps, gently worn down by the tread of millions of people. They walked around the left side of the building and into a ground level entrance.

"I'm sorry, sir," the officer in front of the metal detector put up a hand to stop him. "This is not a public entrance."

"Ah," came the slow response, "I need to check a handgun. I thought it would be better at a staff entrance than pulling it out in front of a crowd."

"Oh. Sure then, we can do that here." The officer waited patiently as the stranger gave him a federal identification card and weapon registration and pulled back his jacket revealing a pistol tucked in a shoulder harness. He handed over the gun gently with his hand on the barrel, checking the safety first. The officer read the registration and tagged the gun, detaching the clip and placing it in a cabinet behind him. "Nice – I've got one of these .45's at home myself. Mostly Bureau guys that own these, though. You Bureau?" Control smiled, but said nothing. "Don't say Secret Service," the Capitol Police officer continued, "those guys come packing in here as if they own the joint. Phew – this sucker's been altered. You should have it looked at. It has some scratches 'round the tip here." The officer pointed out a few faint, shiny scratches on the barrel.

The officer's face urged the man to say something else, but for all his efforts, all the elder man would say was, "Probably needs another cleaning, too."

The Capitol police officer rubbed his hands on his black pants, afraid any grease from the gun might dirty his white shirt. "Anyway, it'll be here when you return. Now if you can just step through the metal detector for me."

Control steered the little girl toward the detector, noticing that she was still goose-eyed over the turn of events with the handgun. After they were well beyond the security checkpoint, the little girl turned her eyes upwards. "Are you a policeman?"

Control pondered this a moment and stopped, rubbing her back, stooping at her level. "You could say that . . . an international policeman."

She contentedly held his hand, accepting this response.

Control looked toward the deep interior of the Capitol. Today, was a Saturday – and weekends tended to take a heavy toll on official business in the Capitol. Fortunately, he didn't have to spend the day reporting to the Intel Committee on the first floor. He had spent some of the worst hours of his life being raked over the coals in that committee room. It was not a place he cared to visit on a leisure trip.

He strode toward a stairway that spiraled upwards. After climbing the steps, they emerged in the Capitol's dome, flanked by murals. Control led the girl toward a white spot in the center of the floor and placed her on it. "There," he pointed at her. "You are now in the very center of Washington, DC." She giggled and looked up, almost falling over at the sight of the huge dome's interior lined with paintings and statues. Light from the dome's windows caught highlights in the girl's golden curls. She was so like another little girl . . . from so long ago. Painful memories hit him again.

_Flash. A little girl's arms stretched upwards. She screams. Running toward him. The millisecond hesitation. Her foot jerks in midair . . . A red puddle dribbles along the floor. Her bright eyes dull. The instant realization. Pain. Sadness. Rage. Flash._

The dreams were worse. They had never stopped. The pain had dulled, covered by scars and time, but the dreams tore open all the old wounds. He could control his emotions, but he couldn't control his dreams. Shaking off the memories, he glanced about the dome, noting the visitors milling in and out.

They strolled toward a recess a few hundred feet away, and the little girl looked up at the giant statue in front of her. "Who is that?" she asked as she stared up at a bronze figure with his arm stretched out swaddled in a golden cloak and loin cloth.

"That," he looked at the massive figure, "is King Kamehameha of Hawaii." She looked at the statue and reached out a hand to touch his cold metal skin. Control lifted her up and let her touch the bronze statue, her fingers lingering on Kamehameha's sandal-clad feet before she shyly reached out to clasp Control's hand again.

"He's pretty," she remarked simply.

Control grunted in amusement. Years ago, the Hawaiian delegation had been instructed to clothe the formerly naked statue. The Hawaiians, unimpressed by the demand, had retaliated by piling a heavy gold cloak and loincloth on the statue, putting it well over the allowed weight limit. Now, it sank into the marble floor, buried in the corner of the Echo Chamber for support because of its hefty weight. That story could wait until she was older, he decided. He wasn't about to get into the finer points of when nudeness was appropriate with a 4-year old.

His cell interrupted with its insistent beeping. "Shit," he swore under his breath.

* * *

On the other side of the country, the streets of Denver were filled with snow and ice. The weather had driven throngs of people to the Natural History museum downtown. Inside, new exhibits were attracting more than the usual amounts of people. In front of one exhibit, a young man was staring intently at the description of a recent archaeological find on everyday life in Ancient Egypt. His face soured when an older woman walked into him without looking. Her bag from the Tattered Cover bookstore thumped his leg.

"Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."

The young man accepted her apology. "It's all right," he replied. He bent down to retrieve a small postcard, dropped in the haste of the brush-pass. He adjusted his heavy winter coat, dropping the postcard into one of its large pockets as he left the exhibit. He took the stairs slowly and exited into the cold air. After he found his car in the packed parking lot, he settled inside. A moment later, he pulled out the postcard and a tiny pen knife. Normally, the closeness of his body with the woman in the museum would have concealed the pass of the microdot, had the woman not dropped the postcard. Fortunately, no one had seen the small mistake which could have cost both of them their jobs – and their lives. Slitting the postcard on the edge near its stamp, he peered into the hole. Originally, his contact had passed microdots to him under the stamp, but stamps were liable to fall off. So, they had settled for this procedure.

Before lifting the microdot from its hiding place, he unscrewed the cap of an ink pen. Then, he retrieved tweezers from his breast pocket and lifted the microdot from the tiny slit. He placed it inside the untwisted contents of the pen and reassembled the pieces scattered about the dash. He re-screwed the cap back onto the pen's body and tucked the microdot's new hiding place into his breast pocket. An hour later, he was on a flight to New York.

After he had arrived, he placed a call from a pay phone in Queens.

"Go ahead," came a cold greeting from the other end.

"I'm gonna drop off some stuff at the office after I go to the park. Thought you might want to know."

Unsure of the exact voice, the other individual decided to use an authenticator. "Verification?"

"The clock strikes orange."

The phase indicated a correct identification. "Access?" came the firm voice on the other end.

"Seven Northwest Passage, on Route four. The third individual is close by at 75 Northwest, disregard his twin."

"Good." A click told the young man the conversation was through.

* * *

On his way out of the Capitol building, Control retrieved his weapon from the Capitol Police officer and walked a few blocks lost in thought, alone, to the Hart Building. He dropped into the passenger's seat of his silver Continental T parked around the corner.

Isra looked at him, "You've got quite the touch. Clint walked out the back with a bawling 4-year old."

Control grimaced. _Broken promises_, he'd been chided for that before. "She didn't appreciate the abrupt schedule change."

"She's four," Isra said simply. "Of course she didn't."

Control held up a hand. "All right, I don't need it from all sides today."

Only after Control had been gone about fifteen minutes did the Capitol Police officer turn suddenly toward the door, realizing the only thing that could recreate the circular scratches he had seen on the end of a handgun's barrel was a silencer.

* * *

That evening, Control dismissed Isra and drove himself to Central Park. The information had come in unexpectedly, so his courier was forced to come up with a quick code he would understand that could be placed over the phone. Usually, each letter of the code would have been encrypted using a page number, line number, and letter number, but the courier did not have time to create this message. Normally, the courier would transmit a book title for the Beale code in advance. A Beale code was highly preferable for a pass like this since without the right pre-arranged book, such codes were impossible to break. Nevertheless, things rarely went as smoothly as Control would have liked.

He carefully made his way to the dead drop, in case anyone was trying to tail him. Sweat had already formed on his brow. _If this is what I think it is . . . _He clinched his jaw, feeling his pulse quicken. He scanned the area. Seeing no one of significance and with night as his cover, he crouched down and retrieved a small, thick, surprisingly heavy black box. Carefully, he carried the box back to his car. Once inside, he decided to check the contents, so he drove to an alley close by and parked his car, distrustful of any pedestrians nearby.

He turned to the box in the other seat. Gently, he lifted the package and put on his slim bifocals so that he could see the cipher lock more closely. He knew the box was equipped with an anti-tamper device because he had asked for it to be installed in such a box when and if a document of this importance was recovered. The anti-tamper device was fixed to a bomb inside which would destroy the box if anyone tried to open it without the proper code. Its timer had been set by the courier agent for twelve hours, so he had quite a bit of time to spare before it actually detonated.

He had stopped by the library and looked up the fourth edition of Northwest Passage. Page 7 had the number 1757 and page 75 had the number 1755, so he punched in a key sequence of 17-57-55, hoping the code was correct. Fortunately, his deductions were correct, and the black box's lid popped off easily. Inside, he found a black pen which he pulled out. He disarmed the bomb with another tap on the access panel and placed the box under the passenger seat of his car. Once again, he checked the surrounding area.

Knowing the threads on the end of the pen were reversed, he twisted it clockwise. After a little pressure, the pen cap opened. A tiny microdot balanced itself on the end of the pen. It integrated itself quite well – and had he not been looking for it, he would have never known it was there. The pen felt heavy in his hand; he again twisted the pen near the tip, and a heavy counter weight fell out, smaller than his pinky. He smiled, thoroughly impressed with his agent's foresight. The courier had even provided a miniature microdot reader in the counterweight – insuring that the precious document did not even need to be enlarged at the office. Regardless, this wasn't the place to read it, so he put the pen back together and stowed it safely in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

If the information on the microdot confirmed his recent suspicions, he was about to embark on the most dangerous game of his life. He couldn't stop that line from running through his head, "_all the King's horses and all the King's men_ . . . ."


	3. Chapter 3

Early December, 1998

The door to the makeshift communications array slammed into the wall. Ty and Roger pulled their guns and fired into the figure standing in the door. The body flew back into the hallway, angling away from them. They crouched down, stalking slowly into the hallway with their guns at the ready, unsure who had discovered them or if the man was even dead. The hallway took a quick turn outside the doorway, and they could only see the one, unmoving figure in the dimly light hallway. The body was covered with fresh blood, his gun knocked far from his hand. As Roger reached down to feel the body for a pulse, Ty peered over his shoulder.

Ty suddenly felt a hard, cold gun pointed at his spine. His brow furrowed. Turning slowly, he saw General Broz Sivincic with a disgusted smirk smeared across his face. He was escorted by familiar faces of the organization Ty had been a part of for the past two years. Like Roger and Ty, they were dressed in Yugoslav military fatigues, but unlike the normal happy banter they enjoyed together, this time their faces were grim and cold. The body sat up, and it was only then that Ty noticed the bullet ridden dummy corpse which had been dragged around the corner. They had been had – a cacklebladder. It was a known technique to entice confessions or for blackmail use. The "fake" body, replaced after goading someone to shoot a dummy, was covered in fresh chicken blood. This time, the ploy had insured that the General had caught the conspirators red-handed.

The General waited for his men to surround Ty and Roger, take their visible weapons, and frisk them. Then he spoke, slowly and softly with a growl, letting each word of his short, choppy sentences sink into their minds. "So, Zebic and Utjesenovic, you have killed one of your own comrades to hide whatever you were doing in that room. It appears that we," he waved to the other occupants of the hallway, "do not know you anymore. More likely, we never did. Perhaps you should tell us who you really are. And do not lie, your lives are already on the brink of a quick closure."

Ty and Roger looked at each other, uncertain what to say. They had been working in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) for over two years now. The FRY had been the latest of a long series of United States undercover operations within the Company to overthrow and undermine opposition governments. This one might have seemed minor, but the Yugoslav forces under Slobodan Milošević's regime were causing a lot of problems with the recent escalation of force against civilians in Kosovo. Ty and Roger had been planted in Milosovic's army under the command of this general and more specifically Colonel Pograjac. The room they worked out of, when necessary - had been set up to send out and monitor communications from the Company. Roger had been the musician, the agent performing all the actual radio operations. His communications array was currently set to American frequencies; they were going to be found out one way or another. It was folly to think that a man as intelligent as General Sivincic would fall for any excuses they might have. Their cover had been blown.

"I'm sorry General, we cannot reveal that."

"Really? Perhaps you will feel differently in a moment." Sivincic nodded at his henchmen and motioned at Roger. "Goodbye Utjesenovic."

The soldiers opened fire with their AK-47's, spraying Roger with a flurry of bullets. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Ty bowed his head in silence.

"Now, Mr. Zebic, I suggest that you start talking. Or you will join your friend."

* * *

Five hours later, General Sivincic had not gotten quite as far as he would have liked. Although Sivincic had his hands full directing his division, he had flown in specially from Nis after being tipped off about the possible traitors. Before taking drastic action with his remaining prisoner, he had decided to carefully consider his next move. After two cigars, he had sent for Tatijana. He walked back into the dim, musty room that was normally used for storage but was now his makeshift questioning room. Colonel Pograjac stood up after spitting in the prisoner's face and saluting the general. Returning the salute, Sivincic leaned toward Ty.

"I can see you have been trained well. Perhaps that is why you rose so quickly in the ranks, Captain." He ripped the VSCG insignia off of Ty's uniform and then ripped off the captain's insignia. "You are no longer deserving of that rank, though, Zebic." He paused, looking over the prisoner, disgust showing in his eyes. "You work for the Americans, Zebic – it's obvious; it's apparent. Why don't you just admit it?" He waited for Zebic to reply, and when no response came, he let a tiny smile seep out from the side of his mouth. "No? No? All right then, Zebic, perhaps you will care more when I kill her . . . very slowly." Behind Sivincic, a bright eyed, frightened woman with long, flowing, deep brown hair and olive eyes was pushed to face Ty.

He had wondered why they did not beat him, but now he understood – they were going to blackmail him into telling them anything they wanted. Sivincic's initial anger at the thought of traitors had been quelled, and he was now ready to exploit the contacts Ty had made in Serbia and Montenegro. One thing the Company couldn't teach was distance, keeping the precious distance from the people he met and saw. This failure was entirely his; he could have keep the distance between Tatijana and himself. But he had fallen in love. They had been seeing each other for over a year, and now she was at his mercy, just as he was at Sivincic's mercy.

Ty realized this was a dire situation, but he had no idea how he was going to get out of it. He couldn't very well betray his organization, but he also could not see innocent people die. "Tatijana," he whispered. Taking a deep breathe in, he saw that Sivincic wasn't in the mood to play games. Behind Tatijana was her entire family: her parents, her two living grandparents, her young sister, and her brother.

Cocking his pistol, Sivincic held it at the head of Tatijana's brother, a young man who had just turned seventeen, himself ready to join the army. Before Ty had a chance to say anything, the general squeezed the trigger, dropping another body on the floor and releasing the wails of a grieving family. His brains splattered on their clothes.

"Now Zebic, speak, or your girlfriend's grandmother is next."

Horror in his eyes, Ty choked back his anger and cried, "What do you want?"

"That's better, now, isn't it?" he smirked. "What is your real name?"

Ty looked at Tatijana, who clutched her dead brother's body, and looked at him with hurt and pain in her red eyes. He could hear her silent moans of "Radoje, Radoje," her brother's name as she rocked his still body back and forth.

"Please, not in front of them," Ty begged.

The general motioned and waited for the family to be dragged away by the soldiers. He waited patiently, knowing that the betrayer was already in his clutches.

"My name is Ty Simpson. I am an intelligence operative working for the United States."

The General bared his yellow teeth. "Much better . . . Simpson, you said? Yes, now, what was your mission?"

"Initially, Roger and I were sent as sleeper agents, only to be activated when the circumstances were dire. We waited and watched – learning about the new Yugoslavian military as we were integrated into it."

"Activated by whom?"

"By the Company."

"And . . . "

"And then our mission was changed with the Kosovo situation. The Company needed information on the bombings, troop strength, civilians killed, etc. So we were activated, on a low profile basis with strict instructions not to relay information in a regular pattern."

Sivincic was pleased with Zebic's progress. This was going to be far easier than he thought. Sivincic continued to question the prisoner personally for another few hours. After taking a break, he returned with a few last questions and concerns.

"Are there any other operatives in my division? This is only one section – what about the others?"

"I-I don't know," Simpson confessed.

"_Are there any other American operatives in the division_?" Sivincic roared.

"I swear, I don't know!"

"Somehow, I just don't believe you," he begin to motion to his soldiers again.

"NO!" Simpson screamed, afraid of what the general could do. "No, I really don't know, it's the truth – I-I swear it."

"Who does know?"

"Back at the Company, there are only a few individuals who would know. Northern Control . . . the Executive Deputy Director . . . maybe the Director of the Company – but the Director doesn't personally involve himself in all – even most - the missions."

"What is the setup of this Company's command staff?"

"The Director of the Company is appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate. Under him falls the principal Deputy Director of the Company, the Executive Deputy Director, and then each directorate. The directorates are headed by Deputy Directors of the Company – but we just call them all directors. The Operations Directorate is complex. It is headed by the Director of Operations. There are really two directors - Northern Control and Southern Control. They are in charge of the Northern or Southern hemispheres, respectively, but because they are commanding field ops, their offices are in separate headquarters, outside of Langley."

Sivincic snorted, "all right, all right, but where?"

"Northern Control is based out of New York, and Southern Control is out of Miami. But they've been tied together for the past few years in one man. He's filling both positions, and he's out of New York."

"Hmm . . ." Sivincic laughed. "Very good, you haven't lied yet."

Ty got the distinct impression Sivincic knew more about the Company than he was letting on.

"I think we shall call in some chips . . . root out the ferrets that are infiltrating my division. Now, tell me, what do you know about this man – Control? What is his name?"

Ty's jaw moved up and down slightly, knowing that the general wouldn't like what was coming next. "I-I don't know his name." The general's face darkened and his eyes narrowed at the prisoner.

"Well then Zarich – Simpson, how is it that you say it in the intelligence game? The_ news_ is being delivered."

Ty swallowed, hard. He had already started down this path, he was going to have to do anything to keep Tatijana alive – whether it was information or other black operations. There was no going back now.


	4. Chapter 4

Control threw his keys on the counter and relaxed as the low, sweet notes of Strauss' "Beautiful Blue Danube" floated through a networked surround system. He rubbed his aching brow. He hadn't had been home virtually all week, and the housekeeper was on vacation. It seemed abnormally quiet in his sparse, sterile apartment. He rubbed his temples and his eyes, trying to relieve the stress of the past few days. But, as always, something interrupted his thoughts. The phone's incessant ringing ended as it always did, with a Company computer figuring the time, checking the time zone against the listed origination of the call, calculating the appropriate response, and then answering, "Good evening. The individual you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone." The computer system logged the phone call into a database of every call Control received, including the time, the duration, and the originating number. The phone beeped red, indicating the number had been logged before, and the number had been cleared by Control for a non-recorded conversation line. The red light itself indicated he had five seconds to decide if he wanted the conversation recorded without losing any of it. He disregarded the incessant light – he rarely used the recording option; the conversations were usually imprinted in his memory.

"Sir?" The familiar voice of his personal secretary echoed over the speaker.

Control flipped the phone to speaker. "Go ahead, Nigel."

"Agent Michael Neelson for you. He has updates on the missions today." _Surprising_, Control thought. Brian Van Cavelson, his chief of staff, usually preferred to brief him in the evenings, but Brian must have headed home for the night already.

"Patch him through."

A new voice rang out, clearly nervous. "Uh…good evening, sir, sorry to disturb you at home. Kostmayer and the team have been located and retrieved."

Control rose quickly and grabbed the phone. "Mike? Yeah, where are they?"

"They were flown to Walter Reed, sir. We are trying to have the two hurt individuals moved back to New York as soon as possible, but the doctors have advised that they not be moved until tomorrow at the earliest."

"All right, arrange a CAT airvac to New York tomorrow night, but make sure it is clear with the doctor in charge there first."

The young agent nodded, scribbling the note down. The Civil Air Transport (CAT) was the Company's private air service, usually used to transport agents in foreign countries. They had a few ground aircraft manned and ready to fly at a moment's notice in and around the US home bases. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Do you have a situation report on what happened?"

"Yes sir, I can have the sitrep faxed over right away. Um…I need your secure number . . . "

Control could hear Nigel in the background pointedly directing Neelson.

"Uh…sorry…I've got it now. I'll call you on that line immediately."

"Do that."

"Aye sir, Neelson out."

Control placed the receiver back on the hook carefully, thinking over the latest week's turmoil. Again, his thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, but this time it was his secure, black bulky telephone that was rarely used except when he needed to discuss secure information at home. He picked it up, "Yes?"

"Neelson here again sir. Shall I fax now?"

"No. Before you fax, I want a brief sitrep and a rundown on the team's condition."

"Aye, sir. After the team entered the embassy, security guards were quickly taken out by the team, but a surprise second assault team had been unexpectedly assigned to the documents. Since our surveillance team didn't pick up the second team, they must have been a special security team from the beginning. This probably pretty well proves McGuin's theory that the embassy was expecting the attack."

Control waved his hand dismissively, "We can debrief that later, what about the team?"

"Two agents killed, two hurt – one is unhurt but um . . . traumatized."

Control drummed his fingers on the counter. "I need names Neelson."

"Ah yes. Doner and Rhoads killed, Kostmayer hurt with a gunshot to the head. Netchet hurt with three broken ribs, and his right leg was broken in two places. Robinson unhurt. As I understand it, Kostmayer was leading the assault and when the second security team intercepted them, Netchet was hurt in an elevator shaft fall. When they were ambushed by the security team, two agents were killed in the gunfight. Kostmayer sustained a gunshot to the head and a severe concussion during the exchange."

"Goddamnit." Control shook his head, all of these agents had been damn good, Mickey was one of his best. It must have been one hell of a shootout. "And the papers?"

"The mission, as far as mission objectives, was a complete drop sir."

"Good."

"After the papers were retrieved, the agents were eventually able to get out – they were ambushed after actually getting the papers. Both bodies were retrieved. I believe the embassy was wiped clean of initial security guards which allowed them to get out, but they were using chemical bullets as planned. The second assault team continued their attack but ceased after the agents made it to the outside of the embassy."

_Well, there was that at least._ Control didn't need another incident on his hands to explain to the Director and the Secretary of State. Most of these operations were the director's ideas, but he got to clean up afterwards anyhow. Madame Secretary hadn't taken a liking to seeing him lately, seeing that he had brought news of two major jobs going wrong in the past seven months. Now that they didn't have any major enemies like the KGB, it turned out that their own agents were the biggest problem. If there were no American bodies on the premises, the opposing government's threats could be ignored. And with the papers being recovered, the President would have very little to worry about retaliation – all they could do now was spread rumors.

"Good. Fax that report now, Mike, and tell Nigel I want the supervising doctor on a direct line after it has come through. I want whatever you can gather on that second security team in tomorrow's morning meeting. Oh and ask Nigel to find numbers for Doner and Rhoads' next of kin and check the Director's schedule tonight." Control flipped the Voice Data button off so that the machine would pick up faxes and poured himself a bourbon.

"Yes sir," the young agent replied, sending the fax as requested. A few moments later, Nigel had patched Control through to Walter Reed Hospital.

". . . His condition is serious but not critical at the moment, and he has stabilized well in the past hour. He will be undergoing some minor surgery. He landed on his right side in the fall, and that is where most of the damage has occurred. There should be no problems with moving him to New York tomorrow afternoon provided surgery is completed and he is recovering well," the doctor concluded.

"And Kostmayer?"

"I'm holding Kostmayer pending a cat scan and a thorough evaluation. At this point, he seems to have sustained at least partial short term memory loss."

Control grimaced, "I was told he received a gunshot wound to the head."

"Yes indeed. But frankly it's minor, no more than a scratch. But the concussion was severe, and we are going to keep him under evaluation a little longer."

"Fine. Doctor Pohl, I'll have Nigel give you a personal number where you can contact me. I would like updates on the hour until they reach New York."

"Will do."

"Fine, thanks. Goodbye, doctor."

"Goodbye."

The line rang again immediately. "Nigel?"

"I've got the Director's schedule, sir. It's clear."

"I suppose that saves me from the dirty work tonight."

"It would appear so."

"Put him through on the secured line."

He heard a pause as the line connected then the Director's booming voice came on the line. "Jesus, Control, what the hell is it? It's almost midnight."

Control filled in the Director on the details of the mission and gave him the next of kin numbers. "I hate these calls, Control," he sighed. "Suppose it has to be done."

"They never tell you about the downside of the job during the confirmation hearings," he replied, sympathetically.

"Alright, alright, I'll get it done. Goodnight, Control."

"Goodnight." The line went dead. Control glanced through the faxed report. Carrying the phone, he looked at it for a moment, hesitating before dialing a number on his speed dial. He heard the familiar tones of an answering machine, and he sighed, "Robert, if you are there, then pick up." Waiting another moment or so, he heard the phone click and the answering machine automatically turn off.

"Control?"

"Can you talk?"

"Yes," McCall's voice held a note of wariness, sensing the news to come. "What else would I be doing at this time of night? I was bloody sleeping."

"How's the wedding planning?"

McCall narrowed his eyes. "It's fine. Skip the small talk; you don't normally call at this hour unless it's important."

Control took a deep breath before diving in, "There has been an incident, and I thought you would want to hear it from me first."

Control heard silence on the other end of the phone, but only for a moment. An accented, British voice answered, "Well, what is it this time?" The fine edge of irritation was already audible in his friend's voice.

Control despised making these calls to his old friend, but he knew that it would be wiser to call now instead of having Robert find out on his own. McCall could, and often did, yell a lot longer and a lot harder. McCall had recruited Kostmayer to the Company, and though McCall had been out of the business for some time, Kostmayer was still a good friend and associate. Control softened his tone, "Mickey was out doing a black bag job last night. He has sustained a few injuries. He's been taken out of commission for a while, at least for Company business."

"Is he all right?" McCall's mind raced. He was not fond of the latest Company tactics and missions, and it concerned him much more when a close friend was hurt.

"Yes, he's fine, Robert." _A little white lie._

McCall paused, waiting for Control to continue. After a moment, he realized he shouldn't have counted on anything more from Control. McCall always had to pry to get anything out of Control. He bellowed, "Well, what the bloody hell happened, Control?"

"Now that's classified . . ."

"Classified be damned!"

"Robert, you know I can't talk about something like that on an unsecure phone line."

"Well then, where is it this time?"

"Where is what?" Control leveled his voice to meet McCall's.

"The meeting place, the meeting place! Whenever you have something to tell me and it is classified, you refuse to do it in any civilized place. Where is it?"

"I really can't leave tonight Robert, I'm monitoring the situation."

McCall held in his fury and refused to slam the phone down, but he was very close to losing his good humor. Taking a deep breath, McCall calmed himself and steadied his voice. "Well, what can you tell me?"

"He's absolutely fine. He'll be in New York tomorrow, and I'm putting him on medical leave until further notice. I just wanted to give you a heads up."

"I've never known you to put someone on medical leave because they are 'fine.' This sounds a hell of a lot like another mission."

Control closed his eyes, he knew that Robert was referring to a certain incident that had happened a few years earlier involving Mickey and a mind altering drug experiment performed by KGB double agents within the Company. That time, however, Control had been set up and four men had died when Mickey was taken hostage.

"Listen, Old Son, Mickey is not missing, and this is really quite different."

"Really," McCall commented dryly.

"What do you want me to do, Robert? You are welcome to come over here and monitor the situation if you like."

"What situation, Control? You still haven't told me what in the devil's foot is going on!" Robert was exasperated. It was so like Control to do this to him.

A little red light flashed on Control's phone. "Listen, Robert I would love to stay and chat, but I've got a call on the other line."

"How convenient."

"Really, Robert, I must go."

McCall dropped the phone back into its cradle and paraded around his kitchen. He was certain Control liked to lure him in like this and then fail to give the rest of the details so that he was left empty handed and open-mouthed. Now he was in the dark without any idea what had happened to Mickey. At these times, Robert almost wished Control told him nothing at all.

McCall's gray hair had thinned a little over the last ten years, but his attitudes toward the Company had softened more. He still ran his Equalizer ads in the paper, not quite feeling his debt to humanity for all the work he had undertaken during his time in the Company would ever be truly repaid. He was finally coming to terms with the shades of gray the Company worked in – not quite right, but not quite wrong. It had taken over ten years for the wounds the Company had created to heal. He could now face his ex-wife without immediately feeling like a deserter, and he could face his children without mentally kicking himself for the time he had missed with them. He could face them all now with a strong smile and proud eyes because he had used the time he had been given, the second chance he had made for himself when he had left the Company to mend the rifts that, at first, had seemed broken beyond repair. His equalizing work had helped him to feel as if he had made a contribution to society. And it had made him feel better about himself and the skills that he had learned in the Black Ops division of the Company.

Mickey had been absolutely vital in many of these ventures, and McCall had often "borrowed" his services from Control when he need an extra hand or two. There were other agents, too, that McCall used like Stock or Jimmy, but McCall had slowly been letting Kostmayer answer the calls of the helpless, frustrated people who left their names and numbers on his answering machine. Instead of the daily workout with his gun, he had been taking up a few more Shakespeare books and walks in the park. He wouldn't quite ever reach the Bingo stage, of that he was sure, but his love life was healthy and active for once.

He and Control had been friends for years, and McCall would not hesitate to call Control his best and oldest friend. Yet, he always felt a tingle of antipathy towards Control's occupation and position – perhaps not so much Control, but the reminder of the old life he, McCall, had led. Whereas McCall had strived to get out, Control had soldiered on in the Company. Without Control, McCall would have been hard-pressed to get out of more than a few jams. Control's position had been rather helpful in more than a few situations where McCall needed information and backup. Yet the favors had been returned in kind, for McCall had also saved Control's life on countless occasions. Nevertheless, he was never sure if Control was telling a version of the truth or a wholesale lie. McCall didn't like it, but he was used to it - that's how it had always been.

The two friends had been through much together, but in some ways, they were polar opposites. McCall's hot blood allowed his emotions to surface immediately upon incitement. Control's natural demeanor and position demanded that his emotions be buried, rarely advertised or provoked – which sometimes only served to further infuriate his comrade, though in tense situations it had a soothing effect upon McCall's burning anger.

McCall, although unhappy at the news, pulled off his shoes and sighed as he poured a hot cup of Earl Grey. He eyed his worn version of Keats and flipped it open. He sighed, making himself comfortable on the couch. He could do nothing for Mickey right now; he would just have to wait patiently.

* * *

Control paused a moment before picking up the other line. The only sign he had any emotion relating to his last phone call was a brief clenching of the jaws. The other phone call blinked red twice, indicating he had to pick it up on the classified phone. The classified phone could handle unclassified communications as well as classified, but it had its own number and so was usually used only for business purposes. "Yes?"

"Sir, Neelson, again. May I encrypt the line?"

"Yes." The blinking light flashed again, initiating the secure line sequence between the two secure equipped phones.

"As I was leaving the office, a report from Belgium came in. They have been monitoring our agents' communications in Serbia. Apparently, the latest communication was cut short in the middle of a message concerning troop movements. It happened this morning and contact has not been reestablished."

"Was this report scheduled?"

"No sir."

"What is their agent status?"

"The agents are Roger Kardes and Ty Simpson, sleeper agents inside FRY territory. If you remember sir, these are our agents assigned to the Yugoslav military ops."

"Weren't those two activated?"

"Yes, sir. They have been periodically relaying information when possible. Most of it has been verified and of use to the Company. Shall I contact the NSA and State to help monitor the situation?"

"No, no, no." Control shook his head. "We don't need the entire USG informed of two agents that may or may not be still inside an unsecure situation." _What was Brian thinking leaving a junior agent like Neelson in charge for the night? There were a dozen other key senior agents on his staff that would have been more appropriate on an operation night. _"Have Brussels try to establish contact within 72 hours. Keep me informed."

"Aye sir, Neelson out."

Control sighed as he hung up the phone again. It wasn't that he had ever really wanted to be on the job 24-7, but the job had yet to leave him alone. Even after he got home, his phone was constantly ringing. With the use of pagers, e-mail, and cell phones, he had increasingly found that his job was one harder to get away from.

He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to will his blood pressure down to an acceptable level. Since the courier drop, he had barely gotten more than four hours of sleep on any given day in the past few weeks. Tonight would be no exception. Instead of turning in, Control stood before his suite's broad picture windows and gazed at New York's glittering lights. He rested there, bourbon in hand, turning his thoughts over and over in his mind. _A second security team._ Surely there had been other things, over the years, that he had missed. If he was killed, this nasty business would be buried again. There was no doubt that his life was in grave danger. The only man he could trust with this information would be the last man to want it. Finally, decisively, he grabbed a fountain pen and a piece of heavy bond paper. He scribbled a quick note on it, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote "Robert McCall" on the front.


	5. Chapter 5

Ty ran a hand through his dark brown, short-cropped hair. His troubled face was examining the packet in his hands. He had been escorted to the local cobbler – the man who would create Ty's new passport back to the United States. The name on the passport was new, but the face was old. He would fly back into the United States followed by two companions, Colonel Pograjac and an army lieutenant. After going through hours of the information he had relayed, the finer points of his true identity, and his alter-identity, Simpson had been pressured into providing everything he knew about his mission. The result – he was finally going home. He wished it was under different circumstances, but at least he would be back on home soil.

"It's ready," the cobbler handed Ty his new passport. It was fairly good, and it would probably pass customs. If it didn't, well it was better not to think of the alternatives. He knew that returning home early would raise questions in itself. If they saw his fake passport, it would make his job all the harder.

On the flight back, Ty could only think of what had happened. He was still pretty young, and he had understood that getting into the Company would mean an abnormal life, but he had never imagined anything like this. As he went through customs, he assumed a brick face of impassivity and thought about his brief time working as an operative. The hard part was moving around every few years. No American government foreign organization, be it the State Department or the Company, wanted its people getting too caught up in their foreign affairs assignment. The powers that be liked to say it was because moving around was good for morale. That way, they argued, no one got stuck in a horrible assignment for too long. It was, in effect, extremely inefficient. But the preservation of emotional distance was so important that it had prompted the government to adopt a policy requiring no more than 2-3 years on a foreign assignment. Even ambassadors could not get around it if they were not a political appointee.

He had only been in Serbia two years, but he had fallen in the one deadly trap that could destroy more innocent people than any other. Other agents had been blackmailed for money, information, and the spread of disinformation, but as long as they had the detachment of emotional distance from their assignment, their percentage of survival was much higher.

Ty thought about Tatijana. She hadn't known he was an agent, how could she? Instead, she had been dragged into a building by soldiers of her own country. She had seen her brother shot for nothing either he or she could have known about or changed. Merely through her association with a spy, she had been accused, tried, and convicted by her own people. And she had not even known that he was not a full blooded Serbian until the second the General had questioned him directly in front of her. Ty had driven her from everything she had known. And yet he loved her. The torment he felt ate at him during the flight home, and nothing he did could stop his mind from turning back to Serbia.

He deplaned at Washington National airport, making it smoothly through customs, but he found out that his final flight to JFK had been canceled due to inclement weather. He asked around at the flight counter, but found no flights out to JFK with any open seats for at least a day.

He decided to call through to Control's office; it wouldn't be good if he walked in completely unannounced, especially when he was supposed to be on assignment. It would be better to warn them now that he was in the country and on his way in, rather than to pop into New York without warning. Ty flipped through his phone book and skipped on down the entries until he came to "Central Industries: Main Operator" and dialed the number listed there. It was Control's main line; Ty did not want to try wrangling the Company's operator system. If Sartre said, "Hell is other people," then the Company's operators had it down pat.

"Hello?" came the rapid response.

"Yes," Ty bit his lip, "Agent Simpson – I need to speak with Control."

"I'm sorry, he's not in yet this morning. He should be in around 9:00. Is there a number where he can reach you?"

Ty glanced at his watch, realizing the overnight flight had confused his sense of time. It was six in the morning, and he had got the graveyard shift. The person answering the phone probably didn't even work in Control's office, and the line had rung through to the Ops Center. "Ah, no. I'm actually at the airport and I don't know when I will be getting into New York. I wanted to give Control a little heads up before popping into his office."

"Actually," he heard the shuffling of some papers and a keyboard being pounded, "we have a CAT transport going out from Andrews to JFK this afternoon. Exact departure time has not been set, but if you have a current agent identification card, you could hop on it."

Simpson looked confused for a moment, and then realized that all agents in the office had access to a tracing system. The agent he was speaking to had simply looked at where the call was coming from – two years in Serbia had done nothing to help his memory of everyday Company workings. "That would be great. It's at Andrews Air Force Base, you said?"

"That's right. Just show your identification to any Air Force MP's on duty, and they will send you toward the right aircraft."

After finding a taxi to take him to Andrews, he was escorted to the plane. He dropped off his luggage and was offered a short tour since the plane wasn't ready to liftoff. His escort walked him around a few buildings, including large hangars nearby. As they rounded the last building, his escort pointed to Air Force One and a few other aircrafts near it. "Andrews is home to the 89th Military Airlift Wing, also known as the President's Wing. They transport and escort the President and any other VIP's." Ty nodded, childishly enthralled by his first look at Air Force One, the giant light blue and white modified 747 airplane used to transport the president.

After his tour ended, Ty turned to his escort. "Since my plane isn't departing for a while, is there a place I can catch some shuteye?"

The MP hesitated and then answered, "Sure, follow me." He took Simpson to a cozy corner in a public building on the base. Ty was absolutely exhausted. His sleep was fitful and uneasy, haunted by nightmares of things past and yet to come.

* * *

Mickey awoke, his head throbbing with pain. He tried to move his legs, to move at all, but the pain in his head was overwhelming. He moaned softly to himself, trying to figure out where he was. From the smell of medicine and the white partitions, he knew he must be in a hospital. But he couldn't figure out why – the last thing he remembered . . . the last thing he remembered . . . the last thing . . . he had some very cloudy memories of being sent out on a mission. But he couldn't remember much about it. He wasn't sure if it was real or not because it all seemed like a dream. He had been at O'Phelan's Bar & Pub the other night before being sent out on a mission – he knew that. Everything else was a blurry haze.

His brown hair was still shaggy after all these years, and he tried to brush it away from his eyes. From his birth in Texas, to his childhood in New York, to his work around the world, Michael Kostmayer had always been the same home-grown boy. His unobtrusive demeanor and plain looks had only helped him in his Company career – though he had never really aspired to take over any power positions within the Company. Rarely had thugs taken a second look at him if he was on a surveillance job – he looked harmless. But his short, wiry body was hardened by years in the Navy Seals, and its impulses were quick and deadly.

Mickey knew something was wrong. He knew his name, his age, his phone, his birthday, his (most current) address, but the date was missing. He didn't know the month or the year. He had no idea what events had surrounded him in the past few days – or was it the past few days? His muscles still felt strong – it must have been recent, whatever had happened. Trying to move made his head throb even more, so he resigned himself to sit still until the sun rose outside his hospital room. He reasoned that he must have been hurt on a mission; although it could really have been anything. Closing his eyes, he let the mist take over, sending him back into a needed rest.

* * *

Control grabbed his wool topcoat as he walked out the door. His cell beeped at him, and he flipped it out as he rested a hand on the doorknob.

"Yes?"

"It's Isra. Southeast exit." She paused. "Remember, we've got a SIS operative pickup this morning."

"Right. Southeast exit." He snapped the phone off. Today was the first day of a three-day seminar downtown with intelligence officials from Australia, South Korea, the UK, Canada, and the France. In addition, virtually all the NATO allies, along with a few other invited guests, were sending agents for the meeting. Nigel had allowed him enough time in his schedule to make part of the first day, but Thursday and Friday were out. His schedule had been booked solid like this since September while the Executive Director position had laid vacant. Control directed the Ops Department – primarily running black and covert operations, but the Executive Director oversaw multiple divisions within the Company, including operations. The last Executive Director had taken a bump up to a new position at the National Security Agency, and Control had been filling in until the suits in the Director and Deputy Director's offices officially selected the replacement. Everyone knew the replacement would be Jack Thomas, but there had been complications with Senate inquiries on Jack's background that weren't going to sort themselves out anytime soon. The Senate didn't need to confirm Jack, as a mere Deputy, but the President had decided to wait until Senate protests had cooled down a little before green-lighting the appointment. In the meantime, Control was holding down his own duties along with the Executive Director duties, a job that he could care less for, especially considering the troublesome paperwork involved with the other divisions. But the unfortunate alternative was another potential Jason Masur, and Control would be damned if another prick like Jason was going to get anywhere near the Executive Director's office. If he had to work around the clock to thwart another young buck's newfound power trip, it would probably save him from having a stress-related stroke in the long run.

Control exited the building, noticing Isra in a heavily armored suburban with another suburban escort parked nearby. She must have acquired her suburban from the motor pool for the seminar. She had a young junior agent working with her in the vehicle, a musclebound hulk who looked like he sprinkled steroids on his Wheaties every morning for breakfast.

The agent popped out and swung the heavy door open for Control, pushing it closed as soon as Control had slid in. Conveniently, the Company had provided its file on Jeffords. But Tom was one of Control's old friends. He wondered if it had dawned on the agent that had put the file there that it would be visible to Tom unless he could find a proper place to put it in the next few minutes.

He flipped through it for lack of anything else to do, looking up momentarily as the muscle in the front tried to make small talk with Isra. Her phone buzzed, and she looked mildly pleased at being able to shut down the small talk by answering her phone. "Nasari here," she answered firmly. "Yea . . . will do. Nasari out."

Control looked up expectantly, and Isra nodded, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "It will be at least another ten minutes. C has to powder his nose."

Control grunted an acknowledgment - Jeffords had recently been named C, the head of the British intelligence network. He was staying at the Marriott Marquee, one of the closest hotels to the United Nations, though the Grand Hyatt was a few blocks closer. As such, it was a popular hotel for foreign dignitaries, also being located in the heart of Broadway.

Isra radioed the message to the other suburban and drove through Times Square making a triangle past the statue of George M. Cohan and cruised past the gigantic sign for "The Lion King." Behind her, the other suburban full of agents followed them closely. To prolong parking, she swept past the Ford theatre displaying a relatively small sign indicating "Ragtime" was playing there. She turned around and headed back the way she came. Finally, she pulled onto 43nd Street and turned into the underground parking lot; the other suburban pulling in behind them. A few minutes later, the muscle up front had opened the door, hopped out, and escorted a gentleman in his late forties or early fifties to the closest back door. The gentleman had just descended from the 8th floor lobby and atrium in a tower of glass-plated elevators, and the stark underground parking area hit his eyes with the glaring contrast. He blinked a few times, trying to balance the darkness of the parking area with the bright surroundings he had just come from. Two of his personal security escorts hopped into the second suburban parked behind them.

Control stepped out, extending his hand. "Tom, good to see you again. We'd better go, or the party will start without us." Jeffords clasped his hand and climbed in the car. Isra rolled the privacy window up and noticed Jefford's file sitting next to her on the passenger seat as the muscle hopped in and sat on it. She sighed, stuck working with one of _those_ guys again. She was relieved she wasn't out in the field with him. She pointed at the file wordlessly, and the muscle pulled it out, throwing it on the dashboard with a sheepish grin.

In the back, the two intelligence operatives were catching up on old times. "It's been a while, old man, since you and I were on assignment together, what?" Jeffords looked at his old friend, his thick British accent cutting the brisk morning air.

"A long time, indeed." Control nodded thoughtfully.

Jeffords waited a moment. "You know," he said as he looked out the window at the dismal pavement. "The Marquee may have a nice reputation, but the Grand Hyatt has a better entrance."

"Their elevators are not equipped to handle large conferences."

"I know, that's why I stay at the Marquee now. Waiting a half hour to get to my room isn't my idea of fun." He sighed. "Well, I don't know what you have been up to, old boy, but we've had a terrible time lately. I daresay we've had more major foreign incidents lately than you have."

"I doubt it. With the two bombings at our embassies, the evacuations, and everything else, I think we've got you beat, Tom." Control replied handily.

"Well, tut, tut. Can't let the old motherland win anything, hey? How is the old chum - McCall? I haven't seen him since Leeds. . . no . . . Angola." Jeffords laughed, "I would mix up those two places! I'll say this, I'd prefer a rousing battle in Angola to a day in Leeds anytime!"

"He's well. Still out of the game and enjoying every minute of it."

"We would never let someone like him get away – I heard he got out some years ago, but I never really believed it. Surely, you must have him on a private retainer of some kind."

Control chuckled, "He wouldn't ever admit it, but he still comes in handy, when needed."

"Always headstrong, that one."

Control smiled at Jeffords, nodding slowly. "So how is the appointment of C?"

"C, C, C, you know I never really thought I would be appointed C. One really isn't supposed to convert from ground intelligence to political appointee - especially when one has played the intelligence game for so long. But I suppose they didn't have any other chaps to take the job. It is not nearly as fun being C as being on the front lines, but I don't suppose I have to tell you that."

"Well Tom, you're right about taking on both jobs at once. I should have known better. I think I'm almost ready for retirement; these past few months have burned me out."

"I can think of an ocean liner full of things I would desire more than retiring. My god, if I had a driver half as beautiful as yours, I would be on cloud nine. You're going to have to pick me up a little more if you keep this up."

Control glanced at his driver. She was fetching, but she was also young enough to be his daughter.

Jeffords went on, "You never did say how exactly Robert got out?"

"That is a long story, believe you me."

"Well, if you are going to dodge my questions, perhaps I'll have to engage him in a line of questioning myself. I haven't seen him in so many years, almost twenty! But I might run into him anyway - since I'm in town and all, I thought I would throw a little bash at the old mansion SIS keeps in town. What say you? It's a black tie affair, a righteous way to ring in the New Year next week. Invite absolutely anyone and everyone else you can think of. And I can think of three people in this car that had better be there." Jeffords waggled an eyebrow at Control, but Control simply shook his head.

"Well, come on Control. What will it be?"

Control looked skeptical for a moment and then capitulated, "I'll pass it up the chain for approval."

"Right-ho!" Jeffords said enthusiastically.

The suburban pulled into the Company's New York location, allowing a confidential meeting place for the intelligence operatives taking part in the seminar. After the suburban drove up to the building's underground parking checkpoint and pulled up to the underground door before parking, Control waved at Jeffords and the muscle, indicating he would be along in a moment. Isra rolled down her window as Control waited for Jeffords to walk out of earshot.

"Will you have his file put upstairs for me? It shouldn't have been out of the office anyhow."

"You can thank him for his foresight," she jerked her head toward the muscle.

"Where is Adams, anyway?" Control asked after his agent-in-charge of security who normally rode with him.

"He's in the other suburban. He's fuming, I think, about your decision to have me around for a little while. You sure you want to upset your inner circle with an outsider?"

He snorted, "It's good for them to be a little off-balance." He turned around, looking at Tom's retreating back. "By the way . . ."

"Yeah, he's a wolf," Isra said, reading his mind and nodding her head towards Jeffords. "Don't worry, women can tell."

"I've no doubt about that."

"You don't have to worry about me, I've got an UZI."

"All right," he backed up, throwing his hands up. "I've no doubt in the world that you can take care of yourself. But be gentle with him; he is the new C."

"Will do."

"Oh, also," he pulled out the envelope with McCall's name on it and handed it to her. "Hold this for safe-keeping for me, will you?"

Isra glanced at the envelope and the name on it. She had heard of Robert McCall, read about some of his exploits in the Company files, but she'd never met him in the flesh.

"Sure," she said, fingering it for a moment before tucking it into her jacket. She didn't look him in the eye; she knew what "safe-keeping" meant. It was to be delivered if and when he was killed. "You want me to commission a few other agents for inner circle security duty?"

"No," he said abruptly.

"O.K.," she said simply, noting his agitation. "Hey, Nigel's been all over me about some kind of paperwork I need for the Company files. Driver certification or something. I guess he's figured out I don't normally drive people around. Has he talked to you about it?"

Control shook his head, "Not that I recall. I suppose it's possible I have a dozen memos from him sitting in the inbox, though."

"He's a little overzealous about it."

"Sounds like Nigel."

"Seriously, where did you get him?"

Control ignored her comment. "Tell him to push it through. He can get it done this morning. Just tell him to have it abbreviated."

"Is that code talk for having him sign your signature?"

"Now listen," he said, changing the subject, "Kostmayer's flight should be coming in sometime today – I need to be there to meet it, so let me know when you have sorted it out with Nigel." Control tapped the door to let Isra know he was through and followed after Jeffords while she parked the vehicle next to a row of identical heavily armored suburbans.

* * *

Simpson felt like an earthquake was happening. He opened his eyes and realized the MP was shaking him. "Sir, sir – your plane is ready to depart." Ty glanced at his watch. It read twelve-thirty. He nodded at the MP and stumbled onto his feet following the young soldier. They walked back outside where he could see the hulking plane, a big sleek gray transport plane; its engines were already warming up. It looked like a converted C-141B Starlifter. It could probably hold around 150 passengers, if needed. A man ran out of the tail drop, used to load cargo. He waved at Simpson, indicating they were ready to go and were waiting on him. Simpson thanked the MP and ran the rest of the way to the plane, dwarfed by its massive size. Inside, the plane was virtually empty. A few brownish crates stood in a corner. There were a few other agents on the plane, sitting on the military seats lining the walls. There was a small cluster at the end of the plane, and Ty went over to see what was going on. A doctor traveling with the plane was checking on his patients. Ty glanced over the faces, looking for anyone he knew.

He saw a bandaged head resting against the plane's rounded surface, chewing on a wad of gum. The old jeans and sneakers told him this was the same old friend he had not seen for years. Ty's face brightened, "Mickey?"

Kostmayer looked up, rubbing his head a little. "Simpson?" his hazel eyes lit up.

They shook hands and Ty sat down next to Mickey grinning. "Hey, what happened to your head?"

"Same thing that happened to my leg in Nicaragua" Mickey said grimly. "What are you doing here?" his deep voice asked Simpson.

"Reporting back from my latest assignment."

"Where were you?"

"Savezna Republika Jugoslavija. I was in Srbija for the most part, although I traveled to Crna Gora a little. The highlight was a four day romp to Beograd."

"Yeah, try English for me, Ty?"

"Serbia – I was in Serbia – you know, the FRY. I got to go to Montenegro a little but I really enjoyed my visit to Belgrade."

"Not a white collar post, I hope."

"Naw, I don't think we have any of those in Serbia right now. A little action, lots of observation."

"I prefer the action."

Ty grinned, knowing that Mickey liked action assignments. He was bored by desk assignments, and the Company was handing out more of those than usual lately. They chatted off and on through the flight, but Mickey was nauseous and sick on the way back. Ty tried to cheer him up when he could, but he could tell that the recent concussion was not helping Kostmayer's general flight enjoyment. The flight landed forty minutes later, guided to a special hangar for debarking. The rear-loading door opened slowly, making the few passengers wait for another ten minutes. Finally, they disembarked. Ty was unsettled to see Control leaning against a black suburban, waiting with his arms crossed.

Isra saw Control out of the corner mirror. He had left the conference abruptly in response to a page, returning to his office to speak with some men that she had never seen before. She was sure they weren't with the Company, but they clearly had enough security clearance to be in Company office space. When Nigel had approached her, tugging on his Alexander Price suit sleeves nervously, he had alerted her to the plane's arrival. She had relayed the message, but Control had seemed distracted all the way over. His face was stern and unsettled.

Now that Control's attention was on the plane's arrival, he appeared to have dismissed whatever was bothering him, at least for the moment – more pressing matters were troubling him. He walked over to Mickey, but stopped short when he saw Simpson. Rarely was Control caught off guard, but Mickey noticed his eyes narrow slightly at the other agent's presence. Kostmayer had figured Simpson was returning from a normal duty mission, but Control's disapproving glance – if slight – was an advertisement that he was not supposed to be there. Even in his crippled state, Mickey caught the hint of trouble brewing.

Simpson noted the change in Control's demeanor as well, and he realized his conversation with the Company agent earlier in the morning had somehow slipped through the cracks. Control had not been informed of his presence. "Oh, sir, I called this morning," he began. Control's eyes hardened as he rubbed his cheek and motioned toward the suburban with a jerk of his head.

* * *

Everyone in the office, except Nigel, shuddered when Control's door slammed. Their Black Operations director was notorious for his self-restraint. So whenever he thundered into his office, letting the door whack closed behind him, everyone was given an auditory head's up that the boss was not in a good mood. This time an agent had preceded him into the office, and no one in the office would exchange places with him for the world.

The secretary pool just down the carpeted hallway jumped at the sound. The women who shared cubicles together there looked at each other, eyes wide. Curiously, they looked up, wondering if he would yell today. He _never_ yelled. The week had been stressful enough; December always seemed to compound stress within the elevated skyscraper in Manhattan.

Nigel adjusted the purple collar of his dress shirt under his suit jacket. His demeanor, as always, was brisk but businesses-like. He was the only male in the secretarial pool, and he knew people whispered about his sexual orientation behind his back. He didn't care; it wasn't any of their business. His meticulous attention to detail and obsessive compulsive perfectionism had earned him a stellar reputation among the Company's executives. Nigel had served the Executive Director for two decades, and his knowledge of Company policy was without equal.

When Control temporarily took over into the Executive Director position, Nigel acquiesced to Control's request that he step in as his personal secretary. With even heavier demands on his time, Control required a capable hand to help him manage the flow of information, direct his meeting schedule, and screen out unnecessary callers that needed to be diverted to other divisions. Nigel knew that he had the expertise, knowledge, and precision required, in spades. Nigel took it upon himself to ensure these tasks were done before they even been asked, and he often found himself chastising the young agents that had no knowledge of how to function in a disciplined office. Nigel personally streamlined requests, and as a result, he had built up an impressive reputation for efficiency. He also, he sensed, had built up a reputation that intimidated the young agents and the other secretaries, which he felt was surely for the best.

Knowing that Control had been subjected to far fewer budgetary questions during recent Intelligence subcommittee meetings and far fewer visits from the Administration directorate, Nigel prided himself on the exactness of paperwork in the office, just as he prided himself in his appearance. His lean, 6 foot 2" figure was always dressed in expensive suits, often with a colorful tie and matching silk handkerchief tumbling from his breast pocket. His trendy retro glasses contrasted with his graying temples. If someone carelessly tossed papers onto his desk or negligently forgot to respond to his carefully drafted requests, he would intently peer through his modern frames with a withering look at the transgressor; the lapse was usually cured post-haste.

When Nigel heard Control's door slam, he raised an alert eyebrow. He had noticed Control's stress tolerance spiraling downward in recent weeks, and the man looked like he hadn't slept in days. Nigel flipped through the master schedule, making a note to himself that he should talk to Control about seeing his personal physician for his annual physical.

* * *

Inside his private office, behind closed doors, Control waited for Simpson to tell his story. Saying nothing, he leaned back in his old leather chair awaiting the explanation, two fingers resting lightly on his temple. His nerves were in hand again, the momentary lapse with the door reminded him that this was not important enough to lose his cool; he had bigger things to worry about at the moment. However, there was only one agent sitting in front of him when, if something went wrong in Serbia, there should have been two. His steel eyes never moved from Simpson's eyes, unblinking.

". . . We were found out in the middle of a communication. They must have been tipped off somehow. Anyway, the Serb division we were working for set us up with a cacklebladder. We fought back, I made it out and Roger didn't. I caught the quickest flight out after finding a man to create a new shoe for me. End of story." He looked at Control, expecting questions.

Control finally broke the gaze, looking out the window and thinking to himself. _Another agent dead – that made three this week._ He flipped his intercom button. "Nigel, tell Brian I need Roger Kardes' file." He flipped it back off. He was about to launch a line of questioning concerning Kardes. _How did Simpson get out after his partner was killed? More importantly, where was the body? How much did the opposition know about the operation and who they worked for? Were they traceable back to the Company? _But a knock on the door stopped him. Kostmayer opened the door wearily.

Control straightened, recalling the phone call from the evening before, and the general lack of information Neelson had come up with on the second security team for the morning briefing. "Come on in Mickey. Listen, Ty I want a full report on what happened – minute by minute. I need to know how much damage control we need and how fast. Do you know Ellen downstairs?"

Simpson nodded.

"I'm crashing on a few other matters," Control continued. "She'll be running your debriefing. Send me a copy of the report and cc it to Ellen as soon as you two have finished debriefing it. If we need to set up damage control, it has to be as soon as possible. If we need to stay here all night, then so be it. Mickey, can I help you?"

Simpson stepped out of Control's office, closing the door behind him. He let out a deep breath and wiped his palms on his jeans. _That went better than expected_, he thought.

* * *

"I just want to get out of here. I finished my debriefing, Control. Can I go now?" He wanted to vomit, but Kostmayer held it together.

Control wanted answers about the raid, but he could tell that Kostmayer wasn't in any condition to give them. "Did medical clear you?"

"Yea," Mickey lied. Medical had cleared him to go to Control's office, but that was about it. Mickey was exhausted, and he couldn't deal with any more poking, prodding, or needles. He just needed to get some sleep.

Control looked at him with a wary eye and finally thumbed his phone again. "Nigel, please arrange a ride for Mickey to his apartment."

"Indeed, one is waiting downstairs for him. I've taken the liberty of requesting a medical officer be there to sign him out."

Kostmayer rolled his eyes. "That guy," he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating Nigel, "is going to be the death of me yet."

* * *

A few hours later, Control had finished reading through Simpson's report. He had asked Ellen and Ty up to his office for a final decision on actions to be taken. "Well, Ellen, Ty, thoughts on damage control?"

Ellen spoke first. "After analyzing his version of the story, it sounds like they knew foreign communications were being transmitted. Although they caught Roger and Ty in the act, Roger was able to shut off the communications link – the precious seconds he used resulted in his death. Without his access codes and a complete understanding of up the technology they were using, they won't get far. However, if they should be able to crack the encrypted communications, all they will find is a description of their current troop strength . . . something that isn't necessarily that hard to estimate anyhow. The only other complication is that they would know is that it was the United States doing the dirty work."

Ty's eyes darted to Control. "Sir, really, I disagree. We openly contemplated NATO actions, with strong domestic and international advertisement thanks to the media this summer. We were the leaders in requesting action in the Kosovo situation. Although they wouldn't know for certain which government it was, they would certainly suspect us anyhow. If they were to counter target, they would no doubt automatically assume that it was either us or the British. In my professional opinion, I don't think damage control is needed, especially a strike on the installation."

"Let's get C up here." Control hit his phone's intercom.

A few minutes later Jeffords stepped into the room. After he had been briefed, he commented, "how advantageous that I should be in the building."

Control dismissed the smart comment. "All right, Tom, if they take action – it will likely be on American or UK citizens or foreign nationals."

"Well, I doubt it, old man. They are already at the bottom of the barrel in terms of public opinion. They would be out of their mind to try something like that. If I were them, I would want to keep my international profile as low as possible until the ever prevalent international apathy takes over. As for serious action, it sounds as if they wouldn't find out anything they don't already highly suspect. If I were to pick an operation going wrong, this one seems almost perfect. I mean really, Control, the damage has been at most – minimal. I would let it go."

Control was not completely satisfied, but he was ready to call it quits for tonight. He would take the matter up with the Director later, but he doubted it was serious enough to go any further.

"Were any other agents compromised?" Control asked.

"No, Roger and Ty had no knowledge of any other agents." Ellen answered. She handed him a manila file and Ty's eyes widened. "I've prepared a list of agents that could possibly be affected. They are the closest agents in the field."

"All right," Control flexed his fingers together as he read over the list. "Alert these agents of a status yellow as soon as they can safely be reached."

"Are we done with this nasty business yet?" Jeffords asked. "By the way, I've set the party time for 9:00 on the thirty-first. Now, are you going to alert the Company about our party or am I?"

"Party?" Ellen looked interested.

"Party, sir?" Ty looked to Control.

Control looked back to Jeffords. "First of all, it is not _our_ party. It is _your_ party. Secondly, I didn't know you wanted the entire Company invited."

"Well, what better way to get enough people to eat all the food I've ordered? And don't tell me you are opting out of an opportunity to do some productive work with one of your closest allies? What would the President say if he knew you were widening the gap between our countries?"

"If he knew that you were asking the American taxpayers to foot a bill for an intelligence operative New Year's Eve party, probably not much."

"Who's asking you to foot a bill? The Queen is more than happy to pay for a little romp in New York."

"I'm sure." Control turned to the other agents in the room. "Ah, Mr. Jeffords is planning a New Year's Eve party, apparently for the entire Company in New York. I'm not going to comment on the security concerns, but I'm sure he will take care of that."

"If a couple hundred intelligence agents cannot take care of themselves, I really don't know what you want me to provide, Control. Perhaps a couple of SAMS – maybe a few shoulder launched Redeyes?" He chuckled to himself and turned to the other agents present. "Now I expect to see you all there." He turned back to Control, "as much as I enjoy this place, I adore the Marquee's personal bathtub whirlpools more. I will see you soon, old chap." He saluted with two fingers and glanced amicably at the other agents.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Isra was loafing idly around the office, a magazine in her hand. From the first day that she had arrived, Isra had noticed the looks, the whispers, and the stares from the staff working in Control's office. They were a territorial bunch, and they weren't pleased at all that the Black Ops director had brought new staff into an inner circle. Their real problem, it seemed, was that their access to the Black Ops director had just been reduced. He was no longer running his security through Adams but through her, and he was no longer running his schedule through Brian but through Nigel. The staff obviously thought it was the beginning of a larger shakeup, and hardly anyone would give her the time of day, let alone drop a friendly hello. She didn't mind; their standoffishness worked in her favor. She hated small talk, and trying to walk the tightrope of office intrapersonal relationships held no appeal for her. More importantly, the staff's thinly veiled hostility endeared her to Nigel, who had felt the same hostility since his transfer from the Executive Director's office. Already, Nigel was doing her little favors, here and there, to make her days around the office a little easier.

Seeing movement in the hallway, Isra glanced up, noticing the same pair of men reporting in to Control's office that she had seen earlier. They looked like part of the embassy security ranks, certainly not Company agents. Nonchalantly, she tossed down her magazine and sauntered by Nigel's desk. "Hey Nigel," she leaned on his desk and jerked her head toward the men who had just emerged from Control's office and who were now disappearing down the hallway toward the exit. "One of those guys looks like someone I met over while working at Embassy Sudan in '96, but I'm not positive . . . . Are they with Diplomatic Security?"

Nigel looked up briefly from sorting correspondence, "no, they are credentialed by Treasury."

"Oh," she nodded. "Guess it's not who I was thinking of, then." _Secret Service_, she thought to herself. _Interesting_.

Nigel's phone rang, and he listened intently for a moment before waving to her. "He wants to see you. And don't forget – I need those expense reports before you leave today."

* * *

Isra settled into one of the leather couches in Control's office, waiting expectantly. Control had turned to the window, his reading glasses dangling from one hand as he gazed out the window, his thoughts far away.

"What's up?" she pulled him back to the present.

Control swiveled toward her. "I'm reassigning you; I need you for a mission in Mexico. The details are still being worked out, but the desk officer can brief you on the situation in the meantime."

"O.K." She crossed her arms, feeling like she was being reprimanded, "are you going to Bermuda?" Bermuda was where they sent everyone who needed to get out of town.

"No, everything is fine."

"You're not very convincing."

"No, really," he managed a smile for the first time in days, "I'm just tired. The situation has resolved itself. I appreciate your assistance with my security detail."

"You know, it's highly unusual to put someone on security when you can't tell them anything and then abruptly pull them off a couple weeks later. And, for future reference, it's hard to run any effective security detail without tag-teaming at least one other inner circle security agent for 24-7 surveillance. I know you only use your regular security when it is necessary, and you don't want people breathing down your neck after you head home – I get it, I do. But I imagine one of the reasons you didn't want a full team on the detail is because of your other penthouse."

Control glared at her for a moment, troubled by the way the conversation was going. "I also appreciate your discretion," he said, his tone low.

"Why am I being pulled?" she stared at him with burning eyes.

He rubbed his eyes for a moment. "Isra, it really is over. You are not being pulled for any surreptitious reasons. I really am very grateful."

She softened, finally, feeling less like she was being chastised.

"You've been working around the clock for me, personally, and I want you to take a week or two off. Go to Tom's party – it's in . . ." he checked his watch for the date, "it's in four days. Mexico can wait until next year."

She tried to read his eyes but couldn't gleam anything else from his demeanor. "What about the note for McCall?"

"Burn it."

"Really?" she asked frankly. "It's really over?"

"Yes," he reassured her. "It's finished."


	7. Chapter 7

The wind whistled as the snow piled up against the outside of the spacious mansions in Suffolk County, New York. The snow fell in large, puffy snowflakes that steadily drifted down to join the white laden landscape. The blanket shone pink in the quiet of night, reflecting the light from the clouds. Outside in Southampton, the streets were relatively quiet, but inside the SIS mansion, the gaiety of a New Year brought volumes of excited chatter.

A Jaguar drove up and an older man with white hair opened the door. He walked around to the other side and opened the passenger door as a valet took his keys. An older woman with a shock of amber hair tinted with gray stepped out wearing a black formal. She and McCall walked up the long walk to the broad oak doors. Two doormen in long tail tuxedos swung the doors in, perfectly timed together, revealing an expansive hall overlooked by a deep balcony, which was accessible by a wide central staircase encased in red velvet.

Standing near the doorway was the amicable host, trying to spread as much champagne to as many guests as possible. McCall noticed he was adeptly moving the greeting line into the adjoining party crowds gathered behind him.

"Robert!" He swept his arm back to reveal the hall gay with a 14 member orchestra behind him. "Good to see you again! Finally! Glad to see that you are in smashing health. And you Madame, my my, Robert you devil! I certainly will be by later, and don't be surprised if later is during a dance with the lovely lady."

McCall turned to his date, "I'm afraid I forgot to warn you about him." He turned back toward his host, "A pleasure to see you again, Thomas."

"Here is some champagne for you and the lady; I'm going to send you toward the stairs, and I promise to trot up there later to catch up on old times. Some of your colleagues are up there."

Robert guided his escort up the stairs after tending to their coats. Seeing Mickey and his date, McCall waved at him. "Mickey, this is a good friend, Olivia Parker."

"Nice to meet you Olivia." He gestured to a young woman on his arm. "This is Clarisse. She works in Internal Affairs."

Clarisse beamed at Robert and Olivia. "Oh I know Mr. McCall, he was my first boss just before he left the Agency. I'd don't expect you'd remember me, I was practically in the mailroom back then."

McCall chuckled, "of course I remember you, Ms. Trotenburg, you were up and coming, as I recall. Lovely to see you again."

Clarisse felt her cheeks warming as she blushed at McCall's words. She glanced at Mickey, "I was in luck this week. I needed a date for the party, and I caught Mickey while he was still halfway unconscious."

Mickey Kostmayer grinned a half-smile. He had shunned the formal black tuxedos the host had recommended, and instead, he opted for a relaxed pair of black corduroys, a black turtleneck, and a black sports jacket. He was comfortable, and he was unconcerned by the formality on display in the room. His hair now covered the recent gash in his scalp, which seemed to be healing nicely.

Seeing Mickey's head reminded McCall of Kostmayer's recent brush with the hospital. McCall's thoughts drifted to his run-in with Mickey a few days before. Mickey had wandered over to the apartment after McCall had phoned to see how he was recovering. When Mickey arrived at McCall's house, just above his temple, a nasty blood-caked one-inch scar was obscured by Kostmayer's shaggy hair.

"What the hell happened to your head?" McCall had demanded.

"I dunno," Mickey threw his duffle bag on McCall's couch and plopped down, waiting for the next assignment.

"What the bloody hell do you mean 'you don't know?'"

"I dunno – I dunno what happened. So," Kostmayer attempted to change the subject, "what are we working on?"

"No, there's no 'what are we working on' until I know what happened!" McCall waved an angry finger at an unseen figure. "Control said you were 'fine.'"

"I am fine, McCall. See?" Mickey spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. _He was upright, that should be enough, right?_

"What I see is the result of a gaping wound in your forehead and you not being able to tell me what went on." McCall's words were accented in staccato, his irritability noticeable.

"Look, McCall, it was from a mission a couple days ago. The doc says I had short term memory loss and that I should be fine now. I can't remember what went down on the mission, but other than that, I'm fine!" Kostmayer would never defend Control, but if McCall pushed too hard, he might come in handy as insulation between himself and McCall. "Hey, even Control cleared me," he added.

"That isn't any consolation," McCall replied curtly, his words short and tingling with antipathy. He steepled his fingers in thought, filling away the fact for later reference, not at all impressed by Mickey's response.

With the pop of a champagne cork, McCall's thoughts were brought back to the present. He spied several people, both agents and independent contractors, that he knew around the room, including Jimmy (who appeared to be with his ex-wife, strangely enough), Sterno, Jacob Stock, Ronnie, Ginger, Kelly Sterling, Alex, Joshua, Jonah, George Cook, and even Pete. He saw Harley Gage standing in a corner, a grin on his face. Charlie McGinn was talking to Ellen on the staircase. Larry Masada, the current Deputy Director of the Company was standing near his boss, the Director, the slick Shawn Adams, known to be a worthy political appointee but political nonetheless.

"My god," McCall commented, "It looks as though C decided to empty out the whole of Camp Perry for this outing." The last time he had been back at the Company's field training school was some years before, but he had no doubt it was still producing the same gruesome and deadly talent. McCall was well aware of a lack of presence, becoming more prevalent as the evening wore on. Control was nowhere to be seen. McCall filled away the fact and invited his date to dance to a slow waltz. Olivia accepted his offer, taking his hand and leaning gently into his careful swaying.

Olivia Parker was a general practitioner at Mount Sinai Medical Center and a consultant with Doctors for International Human Rights. She enjoyed her consultancy status by moonlighting in human rights academia. McCall had been quite impressed by her speech on Eleanor Roosevelt's hand in the United Nations' charter at New York University one afternoon. McCall admired Olivia's strength of character when she would not give into detractors of the document who said it was not an international human rights document, instead it was vastly one-sided, leaning heavily toward western ideals. "That's bullshit," she said forthrightly to the audience not acknowledging the reporters writing furiously at her comments. "There's not a person in the world that _each_ and _every _one of these principles does not apply to – or should not apply to." She had stepped off the podium, barely needing the microphone that was pinned to her blouse. "Regardless of the countries that originally signed this document, of the nationality of its writers, of its detractors, no one can say to me that any person in the world has the right to kill, maim, torture, hold people withhold food or water, place them in horrid prison conditions, be forced to live in impossible conditions or violate any of the other rights this document so clearly defines. These are _global rights_, overcoming each and every border that is drawn on a map or in people's hearts. No one has the right_. No one_. And we must fight to preserve the progress we have made in the past fifty years and fight to make more progress." Her strong jaw and painfully honest blue eyes had struck McCall as she had walked past his seat in the audience, staring into any eyes that would meet hers.

"I can't think of a better cause than the work of United Nations peace keepers and aid relief workers. If all nations would support the basic principles of this document, basic humanity would have come a long way." She roused the crowd with her words, bringing many to their feet, including McCall. She slightly inclined her head in thanks but pointed to the United Nations seal on the podium. "Let's make this more than a symbol," she paused for dramatic effect, "let's work toward something we can all agree on – the integrity and humanity of every human being." _And then we can get some real work done,_ she thought.

McCall had made his way over to her after the speech, introducing himself. To his surprise, she already knew his name and had been quick to make his acquaintance. That was the beginning of their new romance. They had their disagreements often – she could see his point in using guns and violence – but that didn't mean that she believed in it. After a long day, McCall would grow tired after their arguments, yet he believed in her integrity and she in his. Only because of their mutual understanding could they endure each other – but their singular acceptance of each other's principles allowed them to thoughtfully disagree while being more than just passing acquaintances.

Now McCall enjoyed their dance, thinking over their short history. He had yet to really decide whether he and Olivia would be serious over the long term – she was a handful, but she had grown on him. He smiled wistfully at her at her, her head nestled in his shoulder.

Around eleven, Olivia descended the staircase, in search of fresh air and a ladies room. While she was away, Robert noticed Control had finally arrived, and he was making his way up the stairs. Control weaved between people on a straight beeline for McCall. "Hello, Old Son," he greeted McCall warmly, "there is a study behind you if you are tired of the crowds." He paused, "Our host has asked that we met him there."

As they were walking in, McCall turned to Control and hissed, "Mickey had short term memory loss, Control – as well as a gunshot to the head. I wouldn't call that the 'nothing' you described on the phone. It would be nice if you had filled me in between now and the week ago that you decided to call me. What in the bloody hell happened?"

"All right, all right." Control threw his hands up in a mock surrender. "We sent agents in to recover certain incriminating documents against our government located in an embassy on Embassy Row in downtown Washington. There was an unexpected second assault team that took out two of our agents and injured two others."

"Control, I don't know how sloppy the Company is getting lately, but that is downright ridiculous."

Control sighed and looked at the floor as he waited for McCall's forthcoming chastisement.

True to form, McCall continued, "I have never known such a simple sounding operation to go wrong. Now what in the hell really happened?"

"Robert, that is all I know. Now if you want more, you're going to have to ask Kostmayer about it because I was not there. Will you go in already?" Control adjusted his black bow tie and waited for Robert to enter the study first. McCall turned to go in, but let Control hear the words under McCall's breath, "Yes, well, I would, _if he could remember the operation_."

After they were inside, Jeffords entered from the back and put on his best host smile. "Well, well, gentlemen, I was going to talk shop with you, but the delightful sight of all these ladies has put me off my game. And, I'm tipsy, so perhaps best that we save it for another day."

"Same old Jeffords," McCall thought.

Gazing at the women, Jeffords continued, "It has always been my personal theory that we get in our look-a-like penguin suits," he patted his tuxedo, "so that the ladies can shine in their natural glory." He glanced at the women mingling close by. "Of course, if you have seen McGinn, my theory is shot from here to the moon. That confounded badger! But that is neither here nor there. Now, as a celebration of our old colony and the New Year, it is time to break out the champagne!"

Control glanced at his watch, he had a few minutes to mingle before he needed to report back to the host for the midnight festivities. He dropped off an empty glass, pulled out a cigar, and strolled down the balcony stairs. In the study, the rest of the happy group chatted away the minutes, spilling back out onto the balcony, listening to the strains of a full-fledged symphony emanating from the floor below them, and awaiting the final countdown.

* * *

Outside, Isra Nasari had a burning cigarette in her hand and was trying her best not to freeze. Her Persian blood didn't agree with New York winters, but she was reluctant to go inside.

"I thought you didn't smoke."

She looked up sharply as she noticed Control beside her, looking out over one of large balconies that flanked the mansion. "I don't," she stuffed the cigarette out in the snow. "Long story," she said, self-consciously. She hated crowds, and she had discovered the cigarette trick let her get away from people at will, unless of course, there were other smokers, in which case they flocked to her.

"Tom's been asking after you," Control's face was amused.

"I'll bet," Isra replied. Having some familiarity with the new British intelligence chief would be good for her career, but she didn't want the familiarity he was probably seeking. She turned to the Black Ops chief, noting his relaxed bearing. No evidence of the recent strain was evident in his demeanor. The extra stress lines seemed to have disappeared, and he looked like he had actually gotten some sleep over the past few days. "You look better."

Control took a long draw on his cigar. "Are you saying I wasn't ready for the pageant?" He let out a long, rolling plume of smoke into the night air.

Nasari laughed, "yea, that's a good way of putting it."

"Always a bridesmaid," he winked at her.

"So," she shook out her long black hair and pinned it back up out of her way, "are we even now?"

He grunted in response, and then added "For now." His gaze returned to Nasari. She was a beautiful little thing with entrancing hazel eyes, and it was hard to imagine that she was a killer, one of the coldest he had ever encountered. But he had manila folders full of gruesome photos, courtesy of her work. He suspected her cold attitude toward her work was informed, in great part, by the personal experience of her family in Iran during and after the fall of the Shah. In countless situations where he could only send in a solo agent, she was a powerful weapon in an unlikely package.

Control thought back to the last few months. Originally, he would have preferred McCall had handled security for him if he needed extra security at all, but the idea was a nonstarter for multiple reasons. He knew that Robert's mind had been on Scott's wedding, and McCall would only resent him more if he missed another important time in his family's life. More importantly, McCall had no qualms about asking piercing questions that Control could not, would not answer. He knew Isra was smart and capable, but she wouldn't drill for answers like McCall. He could still use some aura of authority with her, an advantage he was notably lacking with McCall. While the extra security protection was a nice addition to give him a little breathing space, he also simply needed someone – anyone – with the reputation of a cold-blooded killer to watch his back, and Isra had gained such a reputation within the Company. She also worked for him, so her availability to be visible around the Company came in useful, in case anyone within the Company was targeting him. He hadn't know from which quarter the potential attack would come from, and it was entirely possible it could come from within the Company. There was no doubt that the suits upstairs would have prevented McCall from hanging around the office in the same manner. He also knew that Isra felt a debt of gratitude to him for a favor he had done her last year. It was a calculated risk using her, but they had been on a mission in Panama recently, and his trust in the young agent had grown immensely after seeing her work in the field firsthand. "I suppose I owe you one," he conceded, finally.

She shrugged, "With what you did for me in those Senate subcommittee hearings, we'll call it even." She caught his eye, "For now."

He laughed and gestured toward the inside with his cigar. "Coming in? It's almost midnight, and Tom is stalking the grounds looking for a fetching lady to pull under the mistletoe."

She quickly shook her head, "I've been avoiding the mistletoe for just that reason. And – that gives me an even better reason to ring in the New Year out here – plus there should be some good fireworks over the water."

He waved the cigar over his head in acknowledgement as he strolled back inside towards the study.

* * *

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock counted its way to midnight. As Control chatted with some agents outside the study, Ty left his conversation with Kostmayer and picked up a full champagne glass from the waiter. He sauntered over, handing Control the glass. He had palmed two small capsules, and as he picked up the glass, they dropped into the liquid. Ty nervously moved on to a nearby gathering of agents, waiting anxiously for the heart attack it would cause in its intended victim. He was thankful the champagne bubbles obscured the rapid capsule disintegration.

Jeffords could be heard toasting 1998 downstairs, his full voice filling the room, the sound of glass smashing against the roaring fireplace followed shortly thereafter. The countdown to the New Year began. After a rousing countdown, deep clock chimes struck midnight, and everyone in the party erupted into cheers. McCall strode over to Control to wish him a happy New Year. "All right, I guess Kostmayer has recovered sufficiently," McCall jerked his head toward Kostmayer.

Control threw back the champagne. He hadn't had Krug Brut champagne since Pamplona.

_Flash. Pamplona. He'd come for Gerhardt Reichman, but that had been taken care of. Now, the white and red masses were running before the bulls. The crowd cheering. He had begged, and Susan had finally agreed to meet him, to try to rebuild what they had once had. It was a magical week; she forgot; he forgot. He had scoured the Spanish boutiques for the most expensive champagne he could find – French Krug Brut for the hotel. They both put everything that had happened the previous year behind them. They had such a wonderful time that week, not thinking about . . . it . . . . But today, the fifth day, it had come back. The afternoon bullfight. He had gotten seats close to the arena. A bull suddenly gets the upper hand, and the matador is gored, instantly dead. His eyes blankly stare at Susan. The crowd is on its feet, straining to help the matador up, to escape the rampaging bull, but it is too late. Susan locks eyes with the man, seeing only the death. She thinks of another death, another life cut short. The matador's ribbons of blood drawn on the sand remind her of the blood droplets on the floor last year. Her eyes brim over with tears. Her throat chokes up, unable to speak. He wipes his mouth, disbelieving that this is happening. He holds her closely, wishing she would turn from the bloody scene. She turns on him, taking her anger out on him, beating on his chest. He tries to grasp her hands, trying to soothe her. She continues to pound, wanting out of the horrible nightmare. "We can't live like this anymore!" she screams at him, fresh pain in her words. She calms herself a little. "The memories are eating away at us . . . . I need time and distance. We both do. You blame yourself, but no matter what we do, she can't be brought back."_

_"But Susan . . ."_ _he pleaded with her. _

_"No, we've got to work this out for ourselves, by ourselves." _

_This was supposed to be a vacation from the nightmares, but it is just another part of it: one never-ending nightmare. She is gone. The matador is carried away. The mourning crowd. The lingering memories. The bull's sealed fate. He turns from the bullfight, unable to watch any more. Misery. Solitude. Silence. A phone call at his hotel. Berlin? Yes, Berlin was better than this. Anything was better than this. He would leave Pamplona for Berlin as soon as he could get a flight out. He was canceling his leave. Susan was gone. His life was shattered, had been shattered since last year, and he didn't have the emotional strength to run after it anymore. He left himself there, in Pamplona, never to return again. His heart was crushed in Pamplona, never to beat the same way again. He would never watch another bullfight again. Flash._

"You remember Olivia?" McCall asked, drawing his date's hand closer.

"Always a pleasure, Dr. Parker," Control inclined his head, noting the Krug Brut seemed a little off, and suddenly feeling a heavy weight on his chest as he reached for McCall's outstretched hand. He leaned into McCall, reaching for his chest.

McCall yelled out for Mickey, and they helped Control into the study. Dr. Parker quickly took over with an air of authority, calling out for an ambulance.

Ty stood ready nearby. He popped his head in as Olivia shouted for the ambulance, waving his cell in the air, "Got it," he yelled, simultaneously phoning Colonel Pograjac in the ambulance parked around the corner.

The young Serbian army lieutenant was dressed in paramedic's clothes, accompanied by the real paramedic they were using. Under heavy duress, they had convinced him that he should help. The two men bounded up the stairs, heading into the study. On entering, they heard Olivia shout "Cardiac arrest. The patient's heart and breathing has stopped. He's not responding to cardiopulmonary resuscitation. I need a defibrillator." They glanced at either other. _This was a complication._ The real paramedic ran back to get it as the lieutenant began chest compressions. After Olivia tried to restart Control's heart, the lieutenant saw the paramedic returning. "Ma'am, please step aside. We've got to transport him to the hospital immediately."

"I'm a physician."

"Thank you," he said curtly, "we'll get it from here."

"He's flat line," she heard the other paramedic say as he finished putting in an IV. The two men exchanged telling glances as they continued to work.

They lifted Control onto a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. "I'll ride with him," McCall stated.

"I'm afraid not," the Lieutenant practiced his best American accent, "we've got another patient in there. We don't have room for any passengers. You can follow us if you like. She," he thumbed at Dr. Parker, "knows which hospital we are headed to." The Lieutenant jumped in the back after the real paramedic, swinging the doors closed. Without looking at Control, he said in a voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, "I'm calling it . . . . Ed – morgue entrance."

* * *

Isra was watching the loud pops and crackles of exploding fireworks on the far side of the mansion's balcony overlooking the water. She thought she heard a siren's cries over the sound of the fireworks, but the sound disappeared. She turned back to the water to follow the brilliant colors popping in the crisp air. After a few minutes, she turned back to the party, noticing the crowds inside had looks of shock on their faces. She frowned and picked up her pace. As she turned the building's corner leading to the main entrance, she noticed an ambulance pulling away. She picked up a run, noticing that everyone's eyes had been on the balcony. She bounded up the stairs breathlessly. "What happened?" she asked the stunned group.

Dr. Parker was furious and glaring at the time on her watch. "They shouldn't have stopped, even if he was flat lined."

"Stopped what? What do you mean flat lined?"

Mickey grabbed the young woman and gently spun her around, "It's Control. He's . . . he's dead. Heart attack."

Isra gasped, her hazel eyes growing wide; her face losing some of its color. "Four days," she whispered breathlessly; he had called off security only four days ago. She placed her face in her hands.

As McCall turned to leave, she grabbed him. "You're Robert McCall?"

"Yes," he said, warily.

"We need to talk," she said with grim determination.

McCall shook his head, "Now isn't a good time . . . ." his voice trailed off as he noticed the woman digging furiously through her pockets. She slapped an envelope against his chest.

"I've a note for you – from Control."

McCall took the note from her and jerked his head toward the study. "In there," he nodded to Mickey "you too."

Inside the study, McCall took a paper open and slit the envelope open. "Look," Isra said, stopping him for a moment. "It might not be anything. I was working a security detail for him as his driver, and whatever he was expecting, he thought it had resolved itself. He told me to burn it four days ago. I just . . . I just hadn't gotten around to it yet," she shrugged.

McCall glared at the stranger. _Why on earth would Control ask this little girl to work security for him?_ Something didn't sit right. He hoped it wasn't sexual indiscretion on Control's part.

He took out the note gingerly, unfolding its heavy bond paper. The note was clearly written in Control's distinctive handwriting.

_If you lay for Iago at the stage door with a brick_

_You have missed the moral of the play._

_He will have a midnight supper with Othello and his wife._

_They will chirp together and be gay._

_But the things Iago stands for must go down into the dust:_

_Lying and suspicion and conspiracy and lust._

McCall squinted at the writing for several minutes, trying to decipher the message. It was very familiar. He closed his eyes, thinking back. Finally, he placed it. It was part of a Vachel Lindsay poem entitled, "Concerning Emperors." McCall grunted, his thoughts on the lines that followed the ones Control had written. "Obscure," he said, under his breath, folding the paper and put it back in the envelope.

"What does it mean?" Isra asked.

McCall looked at the petit stranger. He had an idea, but it was so far-fetched as to be completely ridiculous. "I don't know. His message is somewhat opaque. He obviously thought he was in some kind of danger," he sighed, feeling like he was sounding very much like his old friend as he lied. "It's not clear by whom or why."

"Well great," Isra muttered, "that isn't much more than we knew before."

Dr. Parker stormed in the study, "Robert, this whole incident was very strange. Those paramedics should have continued CPR for at least 20 minutes, and he wasn't down for more than 7 or 8 minutes when they wheeled him out of here. And what rush is there to get him in the ambulance if you're going to cease CPR? It doesn't make any sense. I am going to talk to the attending physician at Southampton Hospital; if that's their paramedics, Southampton should sack them immediately."

McCall narrowed his eyes at the news, tapping the message, "Sounds like we may need an autopsy as well." He motioned at Olivia, "We'll go to the hospital and check the body."

* * *

McCall almost thrashed the valet for not finding his car fast enough. After another fifteen minute wait, he and Olivia had left the unhappy party for the hospital. She was silent the entire way there, and McCall could guess what she was thinking. She was a general practitioner, a person who had been trained to deal with such emergencies; but she could not save a patient in front of her. She was shaking with anger.

They walked in together, a stern look upon McCall's face. Olivia marched up to the main desk and conversed with the nurse on duty. A look of surprise crossed her face and she motioned McCall over. "She says that no bodies have been brought here tonight."

"What?" Robert exclaimed. He turned to the nurse, not in any mood for games. "Did you send an ambulance to 3503 Westchester Street?"

She checked her files and answered, "No, we haven't sent anyone there."

A look of disbelief crossed McCall's face.

The nurse looked up again saying, "But it could have been any ambulance company. Did you specify this hospital?"

"Yes," Olivia replied. "It was clear this is where they were taking him." She could have sworn that the ambulance had this hospital's logo on it, and it was the closest hospital to the party. Certainly if they had arrived from any other place, it would have taken them a lot longer to get to the house, unless they just happened to be in the area – which was possible since they had another New Year's Eve victim in the ambulance.

Olivia waved Robert away from the desk "Let's check the morgue just in case." They walked to the morgue located below the main level and asked the doctor in charge if any bodies had been brought in recently. The man shook his head but said they could examine the unclaimed bodies if they liked. They did so without finding anything. McCall realized Control probably didn't have any identification on him, and if he did – well, it wouldn't be very useful since his identification was kept secret as part of Company policy – he might have a number of aliases in his wallet or nothing at all. He might be a John Doe or practically anything else.

"Listen, I will call the local morgues and hospitals tonight." Olivia's mind was already working to solve this mystery. "Here's a preliminary list if you want to get started while I take a taxi home and look up the more obscure ones. Wherever he was taken, we will surely find it soon enough. Perhaps the ambulance was on its way to the City."

McCall furrowed his brow, trying not to be overtaken by sorrow at the loss of his oldest and best friend. Olivia rubbed his shoulders, "I'm so sorry Robert. This is a nightmare."

"Yes. Yes it is," he agreed.

"I'm happy to stay with you if you need someone . . . ."

"No," Robert said gently, "no, I'm going to see what I can do from here."

"I'll make some calls to the other surrounding hospitals. I know a lot of the hospital administrators, I'll see what I can unearth."

McCall nodded, wordlessly. After she left, he called Mickey on his mobile phone. "Mickey, this is McCall. We are having a terrible time trying to locate Control's body. Can you help with the search?"

"Sure, McCall," Mickey answered, his tone grim.

Just then a dawning realization came to McCall. "Actually, Mickey could you contact the agent that placed the call to the hospital? We thought it was this hospital, but they are denying all knowledge of an ambulance to the party tonight. Perhaps if we know exactly who he called, we could find out more. If it was 911, this should have been the hospital, seeing as it is by far the closest."

"Sure thing McCall. It was Ty Simpson, an agent who just returned from Serbia. He was on the CAT plane from DC with me."

"Right, find him as soon as possible."

"Ok." With that their conversation ended and McCall began to call the preliminary list of hospitals Olivia had written out before she left.

Within a few minutes, McCall's phone beeped, indicating a call on the other line. He quickly exited from his present phone conversation with another hospital and picked up the other line.

"Hello?"

"McCall? Kostmayer. Simpson apparently left the party, but no one knows when. No one remembers seeing him after the incident. I've tried the number he gave the Company as his present phone number but no one is answering, not even a machine. I contacted Jeffords and even he doesn't remember seeing Simpson leave with the large crowd he was trying to control."

"Damn. Well, keep trying Mickey."

"All right."

In the middle of his grim duties, McCall fielded a call from C.

"Robert, this is Tom Jeffords. Kostmayer called asking about Simpson's whereabouts. I've only met the young man a few times, including tonight. How was he involved with the incident?"

Robert sighed. "He placed the call to the ambulance. We've tried everywhere and can't seem to reach him. It is New Year's Eve, so I don't know when he will venture home again, but we can't find where Control's body was taken. If we can at least find out which hospital or ambulance company sent the ambulance, we might be able to find him a bit faster. With the lack of identification Control might have had – or the abundance as the case may be – tracking down his body in this city is proving to be quite the task."

"Completely understood." Jeffords paused, thinking a moment. "I have some information that may or may not prove useful. It is, at least, somewhat disturbing if not coincidental."

McCall stared at the polished desk before him, "Yes?"

"I think it is better we talk some place private. Can you come back to the mansion?"

"I'll be there in ten minutes." McCall tapped the off button, wondering what in the world Jeffords was talking about. McCall exited the hospital and crunched through the new fallen snow, reflecting on how this was the worst possible start of a New Year that he could think of. This incident would surely blemish every future New Year's Eve for him. He slid into the Jaguar, turning the heat on high and driving carefully on the slippery roads a few miles back to the mansion. He parked in front of the house, walking past the grand lawn and entrance to the door. He knocked but no one answered, so he pushed open one of the doors. Inside, the orchestra's chairs were still set up, but napkins, dirty wineglasses, and trays of food were scattered here and there throughout the main hall. To Robert, it looked as if there had been an explosion – or a Company party – in the place. He heard a cough coming from above him on one side of the balcony. Jeffords walked down the plush stairs, his hand upon the smooth railing.

"Robert, do you want to come into the study?"

McCall looked at the door to the room where he had already experienced one nightmare tonight. "No, I'd rather not," he replied. Jeffords continued down the stairs and walked to the large fireplace, the dying embers being far hotter than any burning log. They hissed and crackled when Jeffords turned them with a poker. The grandness of the tremendous fireplace overshadowed them; the light of the embers softly illuminating the room. Shadows from the fire played across their faces, distorting their movements and facial features.

"Well Tom, what is it?"

"Earlier this week, Control summoned me because of an incident involving this young man. Evidently, he had been stationed in Serbia."

"Yes, that's what Mickey said."

"From the version I received, he had been working with another agent in a Serb army unit as sleeper agents. It was somewhat unclear as I received only a quick briefing, but they appear to have been partially activated."

"Partially?"

"Again, I'm not sure about the circumstances that permitted a partial activation, but that is what I was told. Anyway, there was another agent involved who was working at the same post. He was the musician. They were set up and somehow this other agent was killed while Simpson got away unhurt."

"Was he questioned as to how that happened?"

"I was called in at the last minute for an opinion of countermeasures to be taken simply because without decoding the actual messages being sent, they would likely suspect an American or British intelligence network had sent the agents. We decided their likely retaliation would be minimal and countermeasures were not needed. I don't know how lengthy his questioning was or to what extent. Control did not discuss the finer points with me, but he seemed satisfied with the matter of countermeasures. I don't think he ordered any to be taken. But that is purely my conjecture."

"But this man's abrupt return is slightly suspicious?"

"I would think so. That's why I'm mentioning it now. It might be totally unrelated, but any abrupt return would be suspicious, I should think."

McCall stood in silence for a moment, thinking over the possibilities. Then his eyes widened and narrowed on the fiery red embers. "You know Tom, I think you have something. Not only did this Simpson fellow call the ambulance and now has disappeared into the night, but I also saw him getting a drink for Control moments before midnight. He collapsed shortly after that."

Jeffords looked up sharply. "Drug induced heart attack?"

"It would seem a likely story. Do you know anything else about this Simpson?"

"No, that's about all I can tell you. One other thing – the security cameras outside may have picked up the ambulance's license plate numbers. Do you want the video?"

Yes, that might be helpful. If nothing else, we can track the hospital it is registered to." They walked behind the grand stairs and Jeffords took out his keys, unlocking the door to a small room lit by tiny flickering lights. He switched on the overhead lights and opened up the main recording device. Jeffords looked up, disbelief in his eyes. "It's not here!"

"The hell!" McCall swore.

"No, no – we had a new central video system installed last year. If the video is tampered with or removed, a small electronic chip stores crude, low resolution versions of the photos. You'll have to take it in for analysis, and I can't promise the electronic photos will be of high enough quality to give an accurate picture. Here it is, though," he opened a small black flap with his fingernail and removed a chip not much bigger than a dime. "If this isn't evidence of foul play, I don't know what is."

"It is better than nothing. Thank Tom, your information has been most helpful." He turned to leave.

"McCall," Jeffords stopped him. "If you need anything – resources, anything at all, call me at the hotel. I'm staying at the Marriott Marquee." He scribbled his phone number down on a business card and handed it to McCall.

"Thanks Tom. Actually," he squinted at the mess lying around, "Have you cleaned anything since the party ended?"

"No, I sent the staff home for the night. I figured it was New Year's Eve or New Year's Day now, I suppose, and since the house really isn't used for much, it could stand a day or two of pure dirtiness."

"Then _if_ he was poisoned, the evidence could still be here. You know those resources you were discussing? How about checking every wineglass in the building for abnormal traces?"

"Consider it already done," Jeffords answered, instantly. "But what possible reason could this character have for poisoning Control?"

"Oh, I'm sure it could fill a book," McCall replied as he waved a goodbye and walked swiftly back to his car. He had been running scenarios through his brain during the entire conversation with Tom, but he had come up with nothing. There were hundreds of reasons Control might be killed, but why take his body? He was not of much use to anyone dead, nor could his body be used for blackmail. Or could it? McCall's world seemed to be swirling together; the possibilities were endless. He needed to get to the bottom of this, now.

From his car, he placed yet another call to Mickey. "Mickey, this is Robert. Meet me at Control's apartment – and bring your equipment."

"Oh, McCall" Mickey groaned looking at his watch. He agreed and hung up, realizing only afterward that he did not know where Control's place was. Clarisse had headed home in sullen silence after the night had turned sour, but Isra had hung around, needing to debrief the night's incidents with someone. Since Control had made him the Emergency Ops Team Captain for all Northern hemisphere emergency operations, he had familiarized himself with all potential agents he could pull for emergency operations. He had worked with Isra a select few times; she was often pushed out on assignment and so was unavailable for emergency operations. In any event, she had a good, if solitary, reputation.

After Mickey replaced his cellphone in his pocket, Isra quietly asked, "Was that McCall?"

"Yeah," Mickey flipped the phone off.

"What did he want?"

"Oh, he wants me to stop over at Control's place." He thought a moment. "Damn – I don't know where Control's place is," he started to take out his cell again.

"I know it," Isra said, simply, closing his cell for him.

Mickey glanced at her briefly, his face neutral. "Did you say you were working security for Control recently?"

"Yeah, as his driver until he reassigned me four days ago. Unless he was supremely diligent, I've still got his security codes. And, his apartment is hard to find if you don't know where it is."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised." Mickey sighed, knowing McCall might hit the roof if he brought in Isra unannounced. He shrugged to himself. "All right, how do I get there?"

They pulled up to Control's apartment at a quarter past four in the morning. Outside, McCall was waiting for him. He glanced at Isra with a concerned look.

She noticed the look and stiffly said, "I was on Control's security detail a few days ago, so if there has been foul play here, you can bet I'm not stepping out of the ring for anyone. I'm here for the long haul."

McCall scowled at Mickey for bringing her along, but he could do nothing about it now. Mickey shrugged in return. McCall rolled his eyes. "Fine, you and Mickey secure the perimeter and then come up. There should be Company guards around here somewhere, if they weren't taken out – see if they are awake, will you? I'm going upstairs."

McCall sat in Control's quiet apartment, alone in the dark, sadness descending on him, the shock finally wearing off and the reality setting in. He was shaken by the night's events, but in a way, it was imminent. He gazed out the broad picture windows and closed his eyes for a moment, and then, shaking it off, used Control's phone to make a few phone calls he knew Control would want him to make, finishing them well before Mickey and Isra appeared.

The two agents finally entered the apartment twenty minutes later, giving the thumbs up signal that the guards were downstairs and very much awake after hearing about the night's activities.

McCall had called Olivia again, and finally hung up the phone with her, sighing.

"What's up?" Kostmayer asked.

"She wants Control's medical file," he replied, shaking his head and removing his glasses.

"I might be able to get it," Isra stated.

McCall and Mickey exchanged glances.

Isra dialed Control's main number. "I need Nigel's personal number," she waited on hold. "Hi, Nigel? Yes, it's Nasari. Yes, I know, I know, I was there. Yes, awful. Listen there's been some developments, and there's no one but you that can help us. We need his medical file . . . . Well, it's a bit of a long story, but I can fill you in on the whole thing tomorrow. What's that? Well if that's all you can send . . . . Yes, it's being taken care of . . . . Sure, send it to his apartment fax. Thanks."

A few minutes later, McCall had Control's annual physical results from a few days before. The blood analysis wasn't in yet, and it wasn't his full file, but it would give Olivia something to look over.

McCall sent the file over to Olivia via courier, and she called McCall back within the hour. "There's no reason from this physical to suspect that Control would have a heart attack. He is relatively healthy, for a man of his age. He was not in the usual at-risk groups, except smoking" she switched tenses, unsure how to refer to him now. "But that doesn't mean much, it can still happen to just about anyone, even the healthiest of athletes, given the right circumstances."

"Thanks," McCall hung up the phone, noticing that Isra had fallen asleep. He rubbed his temples and looked at Mickey.

"Get some sleep, McCall," he said. "I'll keep the watch, in case anything comes in."

Reluctantly, McCall nodded, retiring to Control's guest bedroom.

When the morning of a new year dawned, McCall pulled Mickey aside. "Do you know Simpson?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What do you think of him?"

"He's an O.K. guy, pretty good agent. Been working for the Company for about six years now, I guess. McCall, you should have seen the look on Control's face when he met the CAT airvac. Priceless – he sure wasn't expecting Simpson on that plane, for whatever reason." Mickey started with a smile, recalling the episode, and then dropped back to his low mood when he realized he was speaking of a deceased man.

"Does he have any exploitable qualities? Any reason for blackmail?"

"Biographic leverage? No, not really. He's clean, straight, no real family if I recall correctly, all around a pretty decent guy. Likes to get real involved in his work, but other than that – nothing."

"Hmm . . . all right, thank you Mickey. Get some sleep." McCall and Isra began a new round of phone calls but turned up nothing.

A little while later, McCall received a call on the secure phone line from an agent working at the Company lab who had been drafted by Jeffords' quick call to the Company's Director, who in turn had called the Director of Science and Technology. The S&T division had been called in right away and had just finished a preliminary analysis of the wineglasses.

"McCall, this is Agent Links. We have indeed found one glass with abnormal readings on it. From a quick analysis, _and I must emphasize quick_ because I can't verify the readings for another 24-48 hours, one wineglass has the remains of a poison. I think you are going to find this pretty interesting."


	8. Chapter 8

McCall clutched the phone a little closer. "Well, what is it?"

"It's a Company engineered poison."

"Really? What are its effects?"

"Well, it is like the prototype poison developed just as you were leaving the Company – and I believe had access to – that initiated a seemingly lethal injection of poison into the body and created the effects of death for a period of three to five minutes. This poison, in effect, recreates some of the same symptoms."

McCall knew that particular poison. It was given in doses measured in blue capsules to simulate the look and smell of cyanide. He had, in fact, had reason to use it on occasion. He did not allow the personal glint of hope to sway his thinking. "He had a heart attack. I was there."

"That's the difference – it recreates a quick, violent, lethal – simulated version of a heart attack, actually stopping the heart. It can be reversed but only when another drug is injected directly into the bloodstream along with a simultaneous adrenaline injection straight to the heart. There's no way anyone can restart the heart using CPR or a defibrillator or anything else until the antidote is injected. Until you do that, the patient is medically dead. Of course, the longer you wait to inject the drug, the more chance of brain damage and permanent death."

McCall thought over this news. "How long would he have?"

"The less time the better, but more than 8-10 minutes without oxygen and you are getting into dangerous territory with the brain unless it is pretty cold." Robert thought over the night's events and concluded the actual time it had taken for the paramedics to leave with Control's body had been quite short. Come to think of it, they had been in quite a rush to leave. It hadn't taken that long once they had gotten there to get Control's body out to the ambulance where, if they were going to revive him, it would not take long. However, adding that time onto the time it had taken the ambulance to get there would make it borderline. "Links, what else can you tell me about the drug?"

"Well, it would be accessible to any Company agent with a legitimate claim for use, but since it was introduced, it has been rarely used. It is hard to manipulate unless you have arranged nearly perfect timing of the situation, otherwise you lose the victim. For assassination, there are better drugs that can't be traced. This one is relatively simple to detect through a blood test. Any autopsy worth its salt would automatically give a heads up to any doctor around that foul play was involved, so it is used only in delicate situations where you can take possession of the body. And," he added, "it has an unknown number of side effects, each varying from victim to victim, but the most common are nausea and severe headaches. Due to the timing problems, there's also a high potential for brain damage."

"Is there anything that can be done for the victims as far as side effects and so forth?"

"This drug has never been widely distributed nor widely used. It completely depends on the side effects which again depend on the individual, and frankly S&T hasn't had the opportunity to do wide testing with it - you can imagine why. Sorry I can't give you more information about it, but I just don't know."

"Can you trace which agents have had access to this drug recently? Especially agents who wouldn't normally have come into contact with it."

"Sure, give me a few minutes to pull up improper access files." McCall waited a moment, hearing the tap of fingers on a keyboard. "Yeah, there's really nothing out of the ordinary here. Tobias, Eelson, Johnson – regular S&T guys entered the holding room on hours outside of their normal habits, but they all have special projects going on that requires extra hours sometimes. The Deputy made an inspection of the S&T facilities this week – pretty regular stuff. That's about all for the files."

"All right, thanks for your help."

"Sorry I couldn't do more. Bye-bye."

McCall hung up the phone. He was not sure that Control was alive or what condition he was in if he was alive. But he was certain that Simpson was behind the night's terrifying events. He was aware of the tingle of hope, and he tried to bury it. Even with this information, the chances of Control still being alive were slim.


	9. Chapter 9

Isra turned to McCall, frustrated by the amount of time that was passing. "Listen, we might get a little more done at the Company. We are off today, but I have 24-hour access to the office. I think we should check around a bit down there and try to find something out."

McCall agreed, taking the electronic chip with him to the Company office. They loaded the contents into a computer at the office, and she pulled up the Image Analysis program. McCall stood behind her chair, putting on his glasses to view what she was doing. She sifted through the photos until she came across a fairly good photo of the back of the ambulance. "Here we go," she said, her voice hushed. She zoomed in on the license plate a few times and then hit the "enhance" button letting a little horizontal line run down the photo, amplifying the image as it went. New Jersey CG93353 came up on the screen. "Hold on," she said as she picked up the phone. "Nick, you there? This is Isra. Weekends, holidays, everything, hey? Yeah, me too. Hey, I need a check run on a New Jersey license plate. O.K., its C-G-9-3-3-5-3. Great, I'll just hang on." She looked up at McCall. "He's checking," she let the phone dangle on her shoulder. As she waited, she retied her hair up and then checked through a few more of the photos. "Look at this frame," she pointed out a figure dodging into the ambulance. His face was hidden, but his figure suggested it was Simpson. She finished flipping through the photos and rewound to three frames with an older, heavy individual in paramedic clothing. "Whoa, who's this?" She opened another program with the ability to reproduce images of people using individual facial parts to complete the picture. She began to build a figure starting with his oval face. She marked brown eyes, thinning brown-gray hair, and white skin. Quickly, she added a nose and eyes to match the individual she saw in the photo.

"Isra," McCall pointed to the face, "he has lower cheekbones. Can you change those?"

Isra selected new cheekbones, and the image of the man in the photo stared at her.

"Isra? Isra? You there?" came a tiny voice from the phone.

"Sorry Nick. Yeah, I'm here. What did you come up with?" She saved the document she had just created and sealed it in an e-mail.

"Yeah, I got a positive ID on the van for you. It's registered to a hospital out of Princeton, New Jersey. Let's see – yeah, it's 'Princeton Medical Center.' Listed missing at about seven o'clock yesterday morning."

Isra looked at McCall, knowing he could hear the voice on the other end. "It was painted as a Southampton ambulance, right?"

McCall pointed at the screen. "Yes."

"Well, there goes that."

Isra returned to the phone. "Nick, I'm sending an e-mail to you through the secure gateway right now" she said as she hit the "enter" button. "Can you check your files for an ID on this guy?"

"Sure thing. You have a maniac ambulance driver on your hands?"

"Something like that." She began to check the Company files for a match.

"I got nil. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Nope, that's all I got for you today. Thanks, Nick." She hung up the phone and waited for the Company matches. Three close matches came up, but two were reported dead. She brought up the profile of the third individual, a strikingly similar face appeared. "Here's our man, McCall. Colonel Ratko Ostaja Pograjac. Serbian army colonel stationed in the middle southern area of Serbia near the Kosovo border. Reported to be involved in the ethnic crackdowns on ethnic Albanians living in Serbian territory, namely Kosovo. He lived in Canada, working as Chief of Security at the Yugoslavian Embassy in 1986-1988. That's all we have on him."

"There's our Simpson connection. Do you have access to Control's files?"

"I can't get past the login screen on his computer. We do, however, have a public drive which allows Company access to those files. If he was doing any work which he would save in public files lately, it would be there."

McCall shook his head. "I can't imagine Control would put _this_ in the open Company files, let alone his grocery list. Everything would be locked up in his personal files. He's obsessive about things like that."

"There's two ways around that. The first is completely infeasible. Our computer experts would be able to get into his hard drive without his password, but they would only open something like that up with very good reason and the Director's approval – which we could theoretically get, but it would take a lot of time. And I'm not so sure a lot of upper management wouldn't balk at you seeing TS Company docs."

"Second option?"

"Well, I overheard him asking Nigel to ring through to IT last week because his hard drive had filled up. You know how slow those computer guys are – he probably still doesn't have a new one yet. He had to use removable media in the meantime. So, we could root around and see if he had some disks or cds lying around."

McCall nodded.

Isra walked over to a heavy-duty safe and spun the lock back and forth quickly. She pushed the dial in, turned it back to zero, and pushed down on the heavy handle, a heavy thud letting her open the middle drawer. Looking through the files, she brought out a manila envelope. She opened it and scanned the contents for a list of different office safes. She found the number for Control's personal safe that he kept in his office. Robert followed her into Control's office, which she unlocked with an access card and a quick confirmation code on a digital access pad. Sitting in Control's office chair, she rolled it to the left-hand part of his desk, where his two-drawer was stoically sitting, invisible to any guest seated at the couch across from his desk.

"Usually, Nigel opens this for him before he arrives in the morning. But, everyone in this office has access; since, as you know, Top Secret documents are not held here." She cleared the heavy tumblers and skillfully opened his safe. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out a collection of cds held in a traveling container. She shut the safe and led Robert back outside to another computer terminal.

"Which one do you want to see?" She handed Robert the stack of disks, each carefully labeled in Control's handwriting. McCall scanned the cds. Each had a short inventory with a date for each file. One caught his attention. "Put this one in, will you Isra?"

The disk he had chosen had a header of "NSA-E Communiqués: Monday, December 21 – Saturday, December 26." Isra obliged and slid it into her computer. On it were a number of encrypted messages to the NSA, using mostly Beale codes. The seven or so messages had no subjects, but they did have dates and times falling within the dates Control had written on the disk. "Well, this is very interesting," McCall pondered out loud.

"What?" Isra asked. The messages looked pretty ordinary to her.

"Control was having a little conversation with the White House this week."

'What's so odd about that? The National Security Agency is located at the White House."

"Yes, but his note – NSA-E – indicates he was not talking to NSA agents about encryption codes. He was talking to the president through encrypted messages sent to the NSA for forwarding to the president. They are tagged for the President's eyes only, if you will notice the drop asterisk next to the messages." He pointed to the checked messages on the side of the screen. "Since we don't know which Beale code book this uses, we haven't any idea what the message says. We would need the NSA's computers and manpower to even think about deciphering them, which I'm sure they would object to since they are tagged in such a manner. Even so, a Beale code without the proper book is virtually unbreakable. The other individual who would know what those messages say is a little inaccessible. We are out of luck."

_That would explain the Secret Service,_ Nasari thought to herself.

McCall rose, tired. He gestured to Isra that he was leaving, and she escorted him out. "I'll meet you back at the apartment, I want to look some things up," she waved a goodbye. An hour or so later, she returned to Control's home with a securely locked briefcase. She checked in with the Company guards downstairs and dashed up the stairs. She burst into the door, almost prompting an unsheathed revolver from McCall. But she ran over with the briefcase, flushed excitement on her face.

". . . I copied Simpson's file illegally, so be sure to burn it when you are through." She said a little sheepishly. "Also, I checked for updates on Simpson's situation from a couple days ago but nothing has been drafted for general Company dissemination. I talked to a few people and read the file, but there is nothing there that indicates he would have any reason to do something like this."

After reading the file, McCall had to agree.

"Of course," she added when he had finished, "I did find his present address."

Robert's eyes bespoke a sense of urgency. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" As she handed him the address, he had already grabbed his coat and awakened Mickey.

"Isra, you stay here and watch the place."

She rolled her eyes; she had come through with the information, and this was how she was repaid? She knew McCall either didn't trust her or didn't think she could hold a gun straight. She looked around the empty apartment. "There isn't anything to do here," she thought as she plopped down on one of the leather couches, burying the rest of her protests. She looked around at the sterile environment, sighing.

McCall and Kostmayer drove over to the address separately, and carefully covered both entrances. Kostmayer reached the door first, unlocking it with his tumbler kit in a matter of seconds. He pushed the door open with his gun drawn, covered by McCall from behind. But inside they found nothing. The place had been cleaned out. It was furnished, but only with furniture that had apparently come with the apartment. There was no trace of Simpson. When McCall questioned the apartment's owner, she said that Simpson had paid the full security deposit and requested the room for a period of three months.

"Still, that would alleviate suspicion if someone was checking into where he was staying. But the rental period is short enough to indicate he wasn't planning on staying here for long," Mickey commented.

"You're right, Mickey, I don't think he ever planned on staying here for long. Call Jimmy. See if he can do a full check on any phone calls coming and going from this telephone for the two weeks he was here."

Mickey nodded. Jimmy reported in a few hours later with the news that no outgoing calls had been to any place but the Company. Incoming calls, however, were a different matter. The line had received very few calls: two calls from a Brookline hotel number and Mickey's call from the day before. Jimmy gave the address of the hotel, and McCall and Kostmayer were on their way across town again.

The hotel's operator was loathe to give them any information until Mickey had "pointed out" how "helpful" it would be for the man to cooperate. The slick haired man, mildly reminiscent of Harley Gage, let them see the hotel's book. Checking in around the same time Simpson had arrived and leaving that same day were two white males. The clerk could only tell them that the two men had kept pretty much to themselves, going out during the day and returning late at night. They had spoken a foreign language which sounded to his ears like something like a mix of Russian and Turkish.

McCall looked at Kostmayer. "I think that's the best description of Serbian we are going to get." Mickey nodded one time.

* * *

When they returned to Control's apartment, they discussed their next move. "All right, we still don't know why they tried to kidnap Control and if they were completely successful in taking him alive, but the most logical thing to do if they succeeded or not is to return to Serbia. It would be more advantageous to be at home with an American intelligence operative than to be in the US illegally holding the same person. They would have much less of a chance being discovered in their own country and probably would be provided legal protection by Milosevic," McCall noted.

"McCall," Mickey began, "Serbia is huge. I hate to ask, but how do we plan to find one man, being held hostage secretly, anywhere in the FRY?"

Isra broke her silence. "Well let's just say he was turned. So Simpson is a double agent, for whatever reason – money probably. If he was recruited, it would have had to happen on assignment. That's where his controller would be. Return to the site of wherever he has been working the past two years – obviously the two individuals he knows in Serbia and Montenegro have to be contacts made while on assignment. By the way, what was his assignment anyway?"

"Military sleeper. He sent out a few communications concerning military strength, located near the Kosovo region."

McCall rolled up his sleeves, noticing only now that he needed to go home to shower, shave, and change. He dialed the number on the back of Jeffords card. "Tom, this is McCall. When you were asked by Control to give your evaluation of countermeasures, did Simpson care one way or the other?"

Tom rubbed his eyes. The phone call had woken him up. He hadn't gotten to sleep until a few hours ago, but he was glad to take it. He stroked his jaw, thinking. "As far as I remember, he seemed to be adamantly against retaliation, saying that it would not prevent the knowledge of something they probably already had access to. I agreed with him based on the evidence given to me."

"But he did oppose taking any action on the installation where he had been stationed?"

"Yes."

"And what was Control's attitude toward the countermeasures?"

"He didn't really tip his hand. I think he might have mentioned running it up the chain."

"Thanks again, Tom."

"Sure thing."

McCall looked back at the room. "If Control had decided to order the strikes – whether by agents doing black bag jobs or formally asking the Defense Department for bombing allocations against an installation that Simpson worked for, he would be a target for assassination. However, it doesn't sound like he was planning to do that, and that would not explain why he was kidnapped in such a fashion. They obviously wanted to either use him for information – which means we don't know what kind of time frame we are working in before they really do intend to kill him – or for influence on the US government and specifically the Company. Tom says that Simpson was 'adamantly' against strikes on his former installation of employment. This could have been his allegiance to his new employers, but I think it was probably because he was planning to return there."

Isra threw her hands in the air. "All signs point to this being a well-planned operation. Planned in advance. I don't think it had anything to do with the countermeasures. But if they were planning to return to the same place, they would be against strikes." She looked at McCall. "Obviously the military is going to have intelligence operatives working around the clock to detect infiltration, and they would have a perfect reason to recruit double agents! They are probably taking Control back to home base to question him for information."

"Guys, guys," Mickey interrupted. "This is getting us nowhere. Regardless of why it happened, they are leaving the country if they haven't already, probably on private transport – something we can't trace. If Control is alive, he might not be for long. If this is all we have to go on, we'd better jump on a flight over there."

Isra looked at him for a long while. "You want to go to a country and hope, _hope_ that it is the right place when in reality, it could be anywhere?!"

Mickey shrugged, "Well, yeah."

"Enough!" McCall was losing his patience. "Let's get an infrared photo of the base Simpson was stationed at. The evidence suggests that is where they are taking Control, if he is still alive."

Just then the classified phone rang with an important phone call from the Company, beeping red.


	10. Chapter 10

After Control collapsed and Ty had called the Colonel to tell him that stage one had been completed and to bring the stolen, repainted ambulance around the corner to the mansion, Ty had met the ambulance and jumped in as the other "hurt" victim. His head was wrapped so that no one could identify him, while the Lieutenant and the paramedic had quickly brought Control's body to the ambulance, convincing McCall that no one could ride in the ambulance because of a lack of room. The Colonel slammed the back doors shut and jumped into the driver's seat, taking off at breakneck speed toward an altered twin engine Cessna 310 they had brought in for the job. It was located in upper New York, between Troy and Albany which would take them at least a couple of hours to reach. Fortunately, the sirens and horn of the ambulance allowed them to part the tide of cars on the way there.

As soon as Control's body was loaded into the ambulance from the SIS mansion, the doors closed, and the ambulance sped away, the Colonel spat at Simpson to administer the drugs. Eight minutes had already passed since Control's heart had stopped, and he was no good to anyone either as a vegetable or dead. While the paramedic injected the antidote serum into Control's bloodstream via the IV, Ty prepared the adrenaline shot. He squirted a little the pink liquid out of the end of an impressively large needle, letting all the air out of the needle's main tube. Ty brushed aside Control's shirt and plunged the needle with all his strength deep into Control's chest over his heart. Pressing the entire liquid out of the needle, they waited, hoping they had been in time to revive him. The paramedic monitored Control's vital signs, shaking his head. Still flat-lined. The Colonel shouted over his shoulder to use the defibrillator, and the paramedic readied them by spreading a gel over the surface and rubbing them together. He jolted Control's body twice before the weak heart decided to begin pumping again. Ty breathed a sigh of relief.

"Give him a dose of muscle relaxants and sedatives for the flight over," the Lieutenant commanded. The paramedic nodded, hoping his good behavior would allow him to live. He calculated a safe amount of sedatives and injected it into the IV he had prepared in Control's arm. Control's eyes fluttered open a moment before sinking closed again, unaware of what had taken place.

A few hours later, the converted transport plane's engines had been warmed up and the extra fuel was loaded. The Lieutenant shouted at Pograjac that the plane was ready to go. Control had been loaded into the plane, watched over by Ty. The paramedic had been given a dose of sedatives equal to Control's and left in the ambulance. Pograjac felt this was probably enough to keep him silent until the plane had cleared the United States.

After they were over halfway across the Atlantic, Simpson changed into regular clothes while Pograjac and the Lieutenant had changed back to their military uniforms.

"Zebic," Pograjac continued to call Ty by his alias, "you have done well. We had a most successful mission. Your cooperation will be repaid with, if you are lucky, your life."

"What about Tatijana?" Ty's face darkened.

"What about her?"

"I would give my life a thousand times over for her life – and her family's lives. You promised that you wouldn't harm her!"

"We promised nothing, traitor," Pograjac growled back, stepping back to the front of the plane.

Ty noticed that Control's breathing had become a little irregular. Control had, in fact, been conscious for the better part of a half-hour; although he was fighting waves of nausea and sedatives. He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and to regulate his breathing as much as possible; this might be the only chance he would have to get information that could come in useful later. His Russian fluency helped him pick up the gist of the conversation, although he could only get a few words out of every sentence.

Control did not feel as though he was at death's door, considering what had happened, but his heart muscle ached, his body felt drained and tired after the pure adrenaline injection, and he had a pounding migraine. He was intrigued by the recent conversation, his mind filing away the possibilities of what had happened to him. When he finally felt he had enough to strength to crack open his eyelids, he saw Simpson sitting close by, staring at Control's watch. When he glanced at Control's face and saw his eyes open, he realized Control knew he was contemplating what to do about the position transmitter. If the Company had not already activated it, it was certain to be used sometime soon. Control usually did not wear it, but he had it on earlier in the week from examining Company mission sites. He had failed to promptly remove it once he left work, and it could locate him anywhere. He was supposed to wear it all the time, but everyone at the Company knew he hated the damned thing and he rarely wore it. If he didn't want to be find, then a damned watch wasn't going to stop him.

The transmitter had undergone a few changes in recent years. The first model had required an aural telephone dial tone. Now, it worked much more like a transmitting device. Utilizing the extensive US-powered Global Positioning Satellite system, the watch was activated upon request at HQ or by the wearer by an extended push on the time setting button.

Ty swallowed hard and fidgeted with the IV, his heart racing. The paramedic had kindly provided a portable ECG, a device resembling a Holter monitor hooked up to an input device, which told Ty the rhythm and rate of Control's heartbeat. All had seemed normal since the heart had begun beating again in the ambulance. Control's blood pressure was also being monitored, and he had an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose until Ty had slipped it off, wary of oxygen poisoning. He had been monitoring Control's ECG when he had seen the watch. Now, his fingers drifted down Control's left arm from the IV to the watch. Control watched Ty's actions, realizing from Ty's conversation with the other man that the biographic leverage the Serbs were using on Simpson was quite efficient. But instead of removing the watch, Ty pressed the time button and held it in for the required fifteen seconds needed to activate transmission. Control's eyes closed, and he allowed himself to relax and stop fighting the sedatives.

* * *

Colonel Pograjac came back out from the front of the plane and stopped Ty from giving Control any more sedatives. "I want him completely awake when we arrive. General Sivincic won't be pleased if he is not ready for a complete questioning session at the time we land."

Ty nodded, already knowing that the Colonel was underestimating Control. The first half of the mission had gone smoothly, but that wasn't any guarantee that they could extract the information they wanted from a seasoned operative. And now, backup was on the way.


	11. Chapter 11

An intent brunette-haired woman stared at her screen. She read it again to be sure and walked around her controls to the agent on duty. "Sir, we've got a Code Red, designation critical."

"Who?"

"The phoenix."

Her superior spit out his cigar. "Jesus Christ! You sure?" Seeing her nod, he picked up a black phone. "Unlucky bastard," he muttered. "Been on the job a few days, and this shit happens." Speaking in the phone, he said, "We have a problem. Alert divisions one and twelve, all sectors. Further information incoming, updates on the quarter hour. Pending final verification, action is immediate."

* * *

Robert picked up the phone, he was already beginning to get weary of this phone tag. No wonder Control sometimes turned off his phone when he was enjoying a night on the town or had just gone over to Robert's for a quiet drink. "What is it?"

"McCall," he heard a gravelly voice on the other end. "I need a secure line."

"So do it already, Jimmy!" A moment later when the line had registered secure, McCall waited for the newest piece of news.

"The Company got a signal in just now – Control's location monitor was just activated." Jimmy was another Company independent contractor that McCall periodically used for help in his equalizing business.

"Where is he?" Robert's voice rose.

"McCall," he said, in his Long Island accent, "he's in Europe."

"My god . . . . Is the signal heading toward Serbia?"

"Ah, that will take a moment to calculate, hang on . . . yeah, looks that way. How did you know?"

"Well, this just confirms our suspicions. That man has the worst timing. You would think he would have enough sense to activate the location transmitter _before _we had to do all this running around." McCall turned to Mickey and said, "Make the arrangements to leave immediately. Jimmy, I will need a third operative for the mission, are you free?"

Isra shook her head violently. "Oh no no no, you're not leaving me here. I'm going too."

McCall paused a moment, narrowing his eyes at her, and then shrugged. "Fine – Jimmy, I want you to keep your ears open. Control had some interesting communications happening earlier this week, and someone at the Company should know what they were about."

"Ok, McCall."

Hanging up the phone, McCall motioned at Mickey and Isra to follow him out the door.

By late that afternoon, they were on a flight to Serbia in a private plane chartered by McCall. They had small bags replete with intelligence equipment, and their faces were grim reminders of the mission at hand.

Mickey finished loading his M-16 with the 5.56 MM rounds that he had brought along because they were lighter than other rounds, making it easier to carry more. Isra preferred her standard Uzi loaded with 40 9 MM rounds; although she had a trusty pistol equipped with silencer, as well. McCall had his MP-5 with 30 9 MM rounds and a backup Colt Combat Commander. _To each his own, I suppose, McCall thought_.

Isra had quickly compiled intelligence information before they left, and as they flew toward Europe, she sorted through it, discarding outdated documents and collecting the useful ones. Finding one she thought would be helpful, she tossed an infrared photo at McCall that she had pulled from Company satellite shots. He scanned it, noticing a few extra warm buildings, a few Humvees powered up. It was more useful in terms of base layout, but it also had one interesting fact. "This building here," he tapped the photo, "is hot. It's labeled as a storage facility, but I think it's safe to assume it is the local weapons facility for the base. That might come in handy."

When they landed in Belgrade, just south of Vejvodina, to refuel, Nasari indicated they needed to fly further south to Novi Pazar, which was just this side of the Kosovo border. Although Kosovo was recognized as part of Serbia and Montenegro, it had recently experienced a rash of nationalism: the Albanian majority wished to have their independence from the Serbian homeland. In response, severe fighting had broken out between the Serb government and local ethnic Albanians.

By the time they had landed in Novi Pazar, Isra had pinpointed the exact location where Control was being held. She was keeping careful tabs on the AoS signal strength from his tracking beacon. "I'm getting periodic AOS signals from a site maybe thirty-five klicks to the southeast of here. We will have to take land transportation to get there after the plane leaves, but it should not take over forty minutes to get within a mile or so radius for surveillance. When we are within that distance, we should be able to pinpoint his location to the building – but I'm afraid this particular device can't help us any more than that." She waited for the men to grumble, which they did. After a moment, Isra dug around in her bag and whipped out another electronic device. "This ultra violet light and heat sensor, however, will tell us where any individual in the building is located." She flashed a rare smile.

* * *

Close by, they rented a jeep and set out over the countryside. Isra was right – they had surveillance set up outside of a military installation within the hour. It was fairly well guarded, located on a military base; but nothing overly well done. They had found cover behind some brush on a foothill overlooking the base about a mile away. The surveillance was easy; the rolling hills had enough trees to cover their location, but it was also open enough to give them a good vantage point over the base.

"We go in at sundown," McCall stated solemnly after he had evaluated their findings.

* * *

A few hours later, Kostmayer crawled up behind Isra and McCall, who were waiting outside the barb wire fence. "Patrol every twenty minutes," Isra said as she scanned the perimeter with her infrared night vision goggles. "Ground sensors every three yards, nothing difficult." McCall silently gestured to Mickey who used his metal cutters to clip the fence before them. They were through the fence in a moment, busily dodging the ground sensors. Isra read her heat sensor equipment, indicating a guard was coming. McCall edged up against the closest building, hearing footsteps closing in on his position. He flattened himself against the wall and the soldier walked right past him. McCall kicked out his foot, tripping the soldier, while grabbing the soldier's chin and turning it slightly from behind. The soldier's own weight threw him forward, twisting his neck until it broke. McCall held the body close, letting it sink down to the ground slowly. He motioned at the others that they only had . . . at most . . . twenty minutes before the guard was discovered missing. They nodded and ran toward the main building's back entrance – the obvious place to hold a prisoner. They had observed more military police posted around this building than any other, and it had a concrete side addition – reminiscent of putrid, old jails.

"Shit!" Isra slapped her device.

"What?" Mickey asked softly.

"Batteries are dead."

"Great. We're going to have to do this the old fashioned way." Mickey stowed the device in Isra's bag and then tapped her. He held up two gloved fingers and pointed at the front of the building. She nodded, and pulled out her pistol. It was equipped with a silencer and night sight. She peered around the building, seeing both guards Mickey had referred to. They were chattering in the glow of the building's bright overhead lights. She took careful aim, waiting for them to separate. When they did, she waited a few moments so that one would not hear the other drop and fired twice, dropping both like an expert. Mickey gave her the "O.K." symbol. She motioned to Mickey to continue on; she would pull the bodies into the darkness.

Mickey saluted with one index finger, a deadly gleam in his eye. He continued around the main structure, circling the building and looking for the most likely place for prisoners to be held. He heard the footsteps of a soldier closing on his position, so he hid behind two barrels, blending the gap between them. He looked to the side of the barrels, keeping his eyes hidden so their glare could not be discernable. The soldier's flashlight fell across his dark body, but the soldier could not distinguish the foreign object filling the gap between the barrels, and he moved on, confident nothing was out in the night.

Mickey carefully crawled out of his hiding place, careful to avoid any twigs that might give away his presence. He moved with the ease of a fox. Keeping the building's high lights in front of him, he made sure his shadow would not betray him to the enemy. He took comfort in the moonless night, knowing the absence of its light could only help him.

He surveyed his next point of concealment, the open – but unlit – corner of the building. "This place was put together hastily," Kostmayer thought. The base looked like a converted industrial factory, and the infrared photos had a note with them mentioning that this base was a new installation, only here for six months or so. The army had probably annexed it as a convenient site to watch the Kosovo border and to retard any possible military actions on the local Serbian population – or strike against the Kosovo rebels. At any rate, the installation would not be hard to penetrate – they had already gotten past the perimeter guard without much trouble, and he figured if they were this sloppy on the outside, the inside could not be much more difficult.

He made his way to the building's smooth surface and pressed himself flat against it. Between his position and the corner was a window at chest height which stretched upwards, streaming unwanted light into the night. He listened carefully and heard activity inside. Knowing they would be less likely to hear him if they were going about their own business, he moved forward. He flattened himself to the wall but not touching it, crossing one foot under the other and moving sideways to the window's edge. He continued to move to his left, facing out from the building's exterior wall. His right knee dropped to the ground, and he extended his left leg and arm under the window. He shifted his weight to the left leg, leaving him in a squatting position directly below the window with his legs crossed, his back to the wall. He moved his left foot again, shifting the weight onto it as before, but rising as he did so, ending up standing next to the window's left side. He listened again and heard voices chattering in relaxed tones.

A door slammed directly around the corner, footsteps moving toward him. Within a split second, he had analyzed the situation for possible maneuvers. There was no place to hide; he was out in the open. A tiny one-inch ledge jutted out of the building, approximately nine feet from the ground. He squatted down, arms extended out against the wall. In one powerful vault, he jumped upwards, his propulsion aided by his arms' extension from a wingspan position to a position straight above his head, stretching for the ledge.

He caught the grip with his fingertips, his toes turned out so they were able to catch a second ledge in the ribbed exterior. He pushed with his legs and pulled with his arms, raising high above the ground. He waited until the sentry moved past his position, his legs and arms aching from the unnatural strain. He looked directly down on the shadowy individual as the sentry stopped in the darkness just beyond Mickey's position – but before the window – and lit a cigarette, intending to stay there for a few minutes. He looked like a fresh young kid, just out of school with high ideals to serve his country.

Mickey clenched his teeth. He had hoped he wouldn't have to take out unnecessary soldiers, but the boy had sealed his own fate – or perhaps his choice of occupation had. "You should know better than to work for maniacs who kidnap American citizens, especially Company agents," he thought. Mickey checked his knife with a glance. Seeing that its leather holder was unbuckled, he extended his arms again slowly, moving down the building's side toward the ground. As soon as he was hanging from his fingertips, he pushed off with his toes, landing noiselessly on the balls of his feet, a foot or so from the building's wall. The soldier's humming covered any sound his jump may have made.

Mickey stalked silently to the soldier's backside, taking the knife from its case with his right hand. He sprang forward using his left wrist to strike the man's trachea. The man gagged, buckling forward, unable to breathe from the hit to his phrenic nerve. He could not cry out, and his cigarette fell from his hand. Mickey drove the knife into the man's kidney, jerking the knife back and forth. In less than thirty seconds, the man's lifeless body had sagged to the ground. His SEAL training, once again, was coming in handy.

* * *

McCall had circled the other side of the building after having seen a guard walking swiftly back toward the other body's presence. McCall rapidly walked after the sound, slowing only to turn the corner carefully. The footsteps were still retreating, so he sped up to try and overtake the soldier before he discovered the other body. McCall was forced to scamper through a well-lit area to continue after his subject. He cleared it without incident, but when his eyes tried to readjust to the dark, he found the soldier had been alerted to his presence.

"Lay the gun down, and hands up, very slowly." He could almost imagine the exact words the soldier had called out in the foreign language. McCall did as he was asked as he mentally disciplined himself for the error. The soldier came a few feet closer and motioned with his hand and foot. "Now kick it away with your foot." McCall kicked the gun hard toward the soldier while reaching behind his head to his back where his Colt Combat Commander was awaiting use and rolled onto his shoulder back into a squatting position three meters from where he had been standing. By the time the soldier fired at an empty shadow, McCall was already aiming his Colt and firing himself. The soldier's unmuffled gunshots alerted the base to an intruder problem, and sirens began ringing.

"Damn!" McCall clenched his teeth.

* * *

Not yet around the corner, Mickey continued toward the door. Just as he was about to round the corner, he heard a shot ring out on the other side of the compound, bringing the direct attention of a nearby guard.

"Great," Mickey thought, "I was almost in." The guard spotted Mickey's unmoving silhouette and immediately ordered his hands up. Mickey chose to keep to the side of the building away from the door. He slowly put his hands up, not wanting to provoke an attack from the guard. He could hear soldiers running out the door, but they were running the other way and could not see the other guard and his newfound captive. The man was apparently an officer because he approached with a Browning pistol in his hand, instead of a machine gun. He walked up to Mickey whose legs were spread and arms were up. Foolishly, the soldier placed his pistol against Kostmayer's chest and smirked.

Mickey immediately slammed his hand down on the pistol, catching the webbing between his thumb and forefinger between the pistol's hammer and firing pin as the soldier tried to fire. Mickey continued his hand sweep to the left in case of discharge, but the gun did not fire.

As soon as the dangerous barrel was away from him, Mickey twisted the barrel back toward the soldier whose finger was still caught in the trigger guard. The soldier's eyes glazed with fear as Mickey caught the soldier's gun wrist with his free hand. "Give it up," Mickey whispered, "you can't win." The guard used his left hand to try to pull Mickey's hands away, but Mickey stepped back sharply, tugging on the gun, dislocating the man's finger, and eventually ripping most of it off with the trigger guard. The man sank to his knees in pain, and Mickey whipped out his knife when he heard a voice shouting to him in Serbian. A few other soldiers had been summoned by the gunshots on the other side of the compound and had come running up behind Mickey. He knew the game was up. He raised his hands again, dropping his knife safely to the ground.

* * *

A minute later McCall heard a voice through a nearby outdoor base loudspeaker. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I have your friend. Come out now, or I will shoot him."

"Don't!" Mickey shouted defiantly at the darkness, hoping Robert could hear him and wouldn't surrender.

The General snarled at Kostmayer and returned his attention to the other intruder again. "You have thirty seconds, beginning ten seconds ago. Twenty . . . nineteen . . ." McCall swore and laid down his weapons, wondering where the third member of their party was. He walked with his hands above his head toward the front of the main building. As he stepped out of the shadows, he saw Mickey being held by the door with three gunmen nearby. A distinguished older man with a general's insignia laughed at him.

"Only two?" he said in a thick Serbian accent, "and you thought you could break my defenses? Ha!" Although Robert knew the general's defenses were less than adequate and a mere lighting problem had ended the mission prematurely, he was not about to encourage the general to do anymore shooting.

"Search them," the General said unemotionally.

As his request was being carried out, he nodded toward the soldiers. "Have the rest of the base searched. Lock them up until further notice."

"I was this close to being inside, McCall." Mickey said with a frown on his face. McCall narrowed his eyes in a question. Mickey answered with a flip of the eyebrow and a tiny tilt of the head, telling McCall he had no idea where Isra was.


	12. Chapter 12

They were shoved forward toward the jail, being hauled toward one free cell where McCall spotted a motionless figure. The other cells were being used for storage, apparently not having been used for prisoners for a while. The cell was clean, made of all concrete blocks, segregated from adjacent cells. The sparseness did not add much to the squalid atmosphere. McCall could not understand why, if this base was being used as a border guard against Kosovo rebels, the jail would be empty, but the thought disappeared from his mind when he saw the familiar figure, immobile.

McCall did not wait for the guard to finish locking the cell door and leave before he was checking Control's vital signs. Control was unconscious, his face drawn and haggard, but McCall was relieved to know that he was alive at all. Inside, he felt a fleeting glimmer of relief, but buried it, knowing that they weren't out of harm's way yet.

After confirming that Control was alive, McCall motioned to Mickey. But Kostmayer had already begun to look around the cell for a method of escape. His eyes searched the sparse cell, looking for anything that might help. Nothing. The walls were solid concrete and the bars on the door were sturdy. The cell was crude but it worked well for a human holding pen. Mickey locked eyes with McCall and shook his head, coming to the same conclusion. All they could do was wait.

* * *

An hour later, Control's eyes rolled open. "Well, well. I see the cavalry has arrived."

McCall was relieved to see Control had a sense of humor about the ordeal. "How do you feel?"

"A bit like the Challenger."

Control tried to sit up, but McCall laid a firm hand on his chest. "Really, Robert, I'm sure I look worse than I feel." Control replied.

"What do they want?"

"How should I know? They decided to let me sleep off a little of their life and death experiment before questioning me."

McCall was reassured that Control's voice seemed strong and firm, and he watched Control try to sit up again, this time leaning against the concrete blocks behind him. Waiting a moment, he stood, apparently stronger than he appeared.

"However, they did lead me past a bullpen they have all set up. It's real cute. It has a nice cushy chair next to the controls." He paused, rubbing his forehead. "I have a raging headache, though. I wish I knew why the hell they brought me here."

McCall was intrigued; Control didn't know why he had been dragged to Serbia. "It was Simpson?" he said, cocking his head in a question.

"Yes," Control answered, not amused that one of his own agents had been involved. He carefully unlatched his watch and dropped it to the floor, grinding its inner workings with his heel.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Destroying the transmitter."

"What the bloody hell for?"

"Because its pitch annoys dogs." Control's biting remark betrayed his irritation with the day's trauma. He began to walk to the other side of the cell.

"You know, Control," Robert stopped his friend with an outstretched arm from walking to the other side of the cell. He was not quite satisfied that Control was all right physically, but if he didn't piece together what had happened, their chances of getting out the situation could disintegrate. He could already tell that Control either had no idea what had happened or – more likely – he wasn't going to cooperate with McCall's inquiries. Control's curt responses herded McCall straight into his next line of questioning. He decided to start the interrogation. "I'm quite curious as to why you didn't question Simpson a little more thoroughly when he returned from a mission, his co-agent dead and without prior warning. How did he make it back to the United States? I've read the report, and there are some serious holes. I can't imagine that you would not have asked these questions the moment that he walked back in the door in New York. Now what the bloody hell has happened to you that you let that slip?"

"Must be old age, Robert." Control tried let Robert's comment pass without responding directly to it. Control's face was resolute, and McCall could tell whatever it was, Control would not let it out easily this time.

"Don't feed me rubbish, Control," McCall said, dangerously.

Control tried to change the subject. "I suggest we find a way out of this mess, or we will all be dead."

"You can suggest anything you damn well like. They aren't really giving us a lot of escape options. We are far better situated to wait for them to make the first move." McCall scanned the cell again, noting that the Serbians had left nothing to chance – having searched them thoroughly and leaving nothing in the cell, not even a mattress. The only thing in the cell was the wooden bench that Control had been lying on, adjacent to the left side of the cell.

"I really don't think that would be wise, Robert," Control's voice dropped an octave and he let the last word dangle, indicating he knew more that McCall did, and whatever it was, it was serious.

"What in the bloody hell does that mean? What will happen if we don't get out of here?"

"Let's just say, although I destroyed the transmitter," he looked down at the remnants of the watch, "certain individuals back home are not going to be pleased that an operative with my knowledge is in the hands of the enemy. Now, these people have a policy of taking out _anyone _who might supply improper information to the enemy and they could strike at any time."

"Control," Robert laughed in disbelief, "I _worked_ for the Company!" He stared at Control. "The Company does not take such quick and severe action. They are, if anything, a victim of the same bureaucracy as any other government organization. Countermeasures here and there – yes! But _I know_ and _you know_ that the Company would be loath to kill an agent, especially in your position, without trying a meaningful rescue attempt first. Diplomacy maybe, rescue attempt certainly, and lethal strike if all else fails – and in only the most dire situations."

Mickey leaned the cell's gray, dirt-smudged wall and nodded, agreeing with McCall. He lived for these battle-of-the-will moments between McCall and Control. They were epic. Kostmayer had the feeling that he was watching a ping-pong match, and his eyes glanced back to Control, chagrined.

Control looked at the cracks on the floor but thinking about how far he should go. Calculating the risks and McCall's unsated appetite for an answer, he wavered a moment. He did not like withholding information from McCall, but sometimes it was necessary, and he did not like lying to him either, but sometimes it was also necessary. The next best policy was not to volunteer information, and he folded his arms, silent.

McCall's aggravation with Control grew, and he pulled out Control's handwritten letter from his pocket. "And what's this got to do with it?"

Seeing the note, Control furrowed his brow. "Where did you get that?"

"Isra Nasari," McCall said, pointedly. "It is a familiar name, I trust?"

Control glared at McCall.

McCall's eyebrows shot up in agitation. "I already know about the security detail, and I know a great deal more than that as well. Who is this Nasari, and why exactly would you trust your life to her?"

"She was the Exodus shooter," Control said, simply and directly.

Kostmayer laughed, "Come on! That was a quick response team of three guys you sent into Iran. You testified to it in the Senate subcommittee. Besides, there's no way one that a woman – that she – that anyone could take out 5 Iranian assassins like that on their own." Kostmayer shook his head in disbelief.

"You do know that is perjury, don't you?" McCall asked Control, rhetorically. "That's a new low, even for you."

Control didn't answer, but he saw the truth dawning in McCall's eyes. "Oh," McCall half-laughed, staring at the ceiling, "oh I see. Yes, it make sense, doesn't it? She's Persian. That's why. You had to send in an Iranian, and of course she still has family still there. That's why you wouldn't name her in the subcommittee – why you lied, under oath, to the Senate, about the identity of the shooters. She owes you, then – quite a lot."

"We don't have time for this," Control said in a warning baritone, dismissing McCall's perceptive statement.

"All right," McCall inclined his head with a half-smile, "I'll leave it." He had his answer. McCall waved the letter again, "but I won't leave this. This," he cocked his head toward the note, "clearly implicates the President in illegal activities, now what am I missing?"

"Trust me, Robert, you do not want this information."

"Oh," McCall snorted, "I trust you," he said bitingly. "I trust," he emphasized the word, "that you have an actual reason for getting out of here in a hurry. And I trust," he emphasized it again, "it is probably a good one. But this," he gestured around the room, "is _my_ mission. If you don't give me the information, I cannot operate it, and we are not taking any more action until we know what we are up against."

"McCall," Control protested again, "you do not want this information. It will jeopardize you and Mickey." He slowed his words, emphasizing each syllable. "It will jeopardize Scott . . . Yvette . . . Tina." He let the words sink in before continuing. At last, he added, again, "you don't want this."

"No . . . further . . . action," McCall growled the words, staring down his old friend.

Control had to admit to himself that, this time, McCall and Mickey had a right to know what was going on. Their lives were at stake too, and they could not operate efficiently without knowing the odds. Frankly, he'd rather have someone pound needles into his chest ad nauseam than have this conversation. He scanned the room for bugs and listened momentarily for sounds outside the cell. He could not spot any hidden cameras or transmitters, and he highly doubted the installation had any. It was a calculated risk. Just in case, he made sure his voice was low enough for only McCall and Mickey to hear.

"You know Robert, I really wish you hadn't gotten involved," he said, softly.

"You would have preferred to be left here," McCall gestured to their surroundings in contempt, "like this?"

Control moved to the far wall, sliding down and sitting on the floor of the cell, his back to the wall. He rested his head against the wall behind him and rolled his head to the right so he could see McCall.

"No," he admitted. "It's just . . . . this is top,_ top_ secret, do you understand?" His face was grim. "This makes Sandstar look like child's play. I mean it, Robert, this information can get you – both of you – killed." He paused, sighing deeply. "Once I tell you . . . there's no going back with this. If they don't kill us now," he waved to the air above him, "they'll hunt both of you to the ends of the earth."

"Control," Robert quivered with anger, "there is no 'they.' There is only us, us three in this room, right here, right now. And as I've told you before, you can take your best shot. I did not travel halfway around the world on a mission to rescue you to not know what I am facing here. Neither myself nor Kostmayer. We deserve the truth, the whole bloody truth, and we deserve it now."

"All right," Control threw up his hands in resignation. "What do you know about the OSS?"

McCall rolled his eyes. "The OSS? Control, really! Now is not the time for a bloody history lesson." McCall was quickly losing his patience. This was a bit much, even for Control.

Control clenched his jaw. "Old Son . . ."

"Of course I know all about the OSS, every agent knows that it was the forerunner to the Company." The Office of Strategic Services was formed during World War II to serve American intelligence interests during the war. Truman discontinued its existence, but the Company was created a few short years later.

Control stared blankly at a tiny crack running by his shoe with a concerned look on his face. He spoke softly, distantly. "The OSS was _officially_ discontinued in 1945, and as far as the President knew, it was dead."

McCall walked over to Control, closing the gap. "As far as the President knew?" His tone was dangerous.

Control rolled his head on the wall back to the center where McCall was now towering over him and got up using the wall for support. He leaned against the wall, now eye to eye with Robert.

McCall poked a finger at Control. "Are you saying the OSS is still alive and operating covert missions – about as legally as a terrorist organization?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all." He grimaced. _Well, maybe it was._ "The OSS was officially discontinued after World War II, as I said. A few individuals, including General 'Big Bill' Donovan – the head of the OSS during the war – decided the President was acting out of personal aversion for some of the actions he was forced to take during the war instead of prioritizing the country's best interests."

"Like making the call on Hiroshima?" Mickey broke in.

"Yes," Control nodded at Mickey, "you might say he was feeling regret for his decision. Truman was also being pressured by J. Edgar Hoover, because the OSS undermined some of Hoover's authority. Truman gave in to Hoover and his own reservations about the OSS when he discontinued it."

"So he decided to sacrifice American interests because he did not like the idea of covert operations?" McCall suggested.

"I didn't say that either. I'm sure he felt he had enough help with military and naval intelligence as well as the FBI. Besides, the OSS was Roosevelt's brainchild after the Pearl Harbor incident. Truman had no real attachment to it."

"Incident? Incident? Control, enough with the jargon already!" Robert glared at Control, but Control glared back.

"But Donovan disagreed?" Mickey nudged, helping prolong Control's obvious distaste for this conversation.

"Donovan and a few top OSS agents like Dulles decided that it would be in the country's best interests to continue the OSS. If it had ended, they knew it might take another decade to regain all the covert contacts they had made; all the intelligence operations they had started would have to be scrapped. They would lose a decade to our competitors, just trying to regroup, and at that time, they didn't know if the president would re-institute _any_ intelligence organization. So, the OSS renamed itself – the Office of Strategic Operations (OSO) – and went underground as an undercover intelligence organization, very hush-hush, with an extremely small percentage of trusty former OSS agents. They were able to keep critical intelligence missions going, continuing to collect data and information. Although Truman eventually backed the creation of the Company, the OSO had already been running as an independent shadow agency for several years. The underground organization was already able to run more efficient assignments because it had no oversight committee by Congress. It ran its own internal affairs entirely by itself."

McCall gasped, his face turning red, "that's practically treason."

"Congress has the purse strings, so where did this organization find money for coffee and donuts?" Mickey asked.

"That's a little more complicated. Initially, private funds were used. This lasted a few years until the OSO felt it could approach Eisenhower. It had been rogue under Truman – but its leadership approached Eisenhower once he took office and explained its usefulness in terms of an intelligence organization that was able to operate anywhere, in _and _outside of US territory, in the best interests of the nation. Being a military leader, he saw the usefulness of leashing such a tremendous power for his administration and himself."

"Leashing is right! My god, can you imagine?" McCall's face was absolutely unbelieving.

"When Eisenhower took the reins, the OSO fell under direct – and I mean _direct_ – presidential supervision – and has ever since. But Eisenhower also saw how beneficial it would be if he did not have to answer to Congress and had his own little intelligence agency – a shadow agency that could even spy on Congressional members. It was a continuation of the old battle with Congress, so Eisenhower did not – could not – formalize the OSO officially. But as head of law enforcement and international affairs, he didn't feel that he had to justify his actions with the OSO to Congress, so he continued the privatized funding scheme until he had worked out a plan of funding from illegal ventures abroad."

Mickey interjected here saying, "Meaning, if we kill a Russian diplomat and transfer all his rubles to our cushioned Swiss bank account before leaving his house, we get to keep the money and he essentially finances his own assassination?"

"Something like that, yes. But had Eisenhower not supported the venture, it might have continued as a rogue entity," here Control paused, spreading his hands and shrugging, "it had enough power to be a worldwide terrorist mafia. So can you really blame him for leashing it covertly under his leadership? Perhaps he thought that when the Company matured, the rogue agency might have been outdated and eventually fallen apart, or perhaps he trusted his successors to take the next step and dismantle it. But none of them did."

Control stopped a moment, catching his breath. "The best OSO agents had been asked to join the Company when it was formed, so they had access to all Company assets, without the Company Director knowing about it. Though, with Dulles that wasn't a problem since he, himself, was an OSS and OSO agent and the first Director of the Company. In fact, most of the first cadre of OSO agents were key Company officials. So they were also able to secure Company resources – including new identities. Not only was this organization the recipient of funds obtained illegally abroad by the Company and the OSO, it became the recipient of illegal funds seized at home."

Kostmayer interjected, "that would require the FBI to hand over illegal money instead of burning it or returning it to the Treasury Department. You just said Hoover was against the OSO from the start."

Control clasped his hands. "Correct. But he was approached by the new OSO _after_ having gained secret presidential approval from Eisenhower. To stay in the new president's good humor, he would have to play along. Besides, he knew if he was on the inside, he would have some control over the new organization, if relatively minor, because he knew about its existence. He had not wanted the OSS to exist _before _because he had no control over it. Now, as a shadow agency, he could use the OSO to combat the amount of power the Company had, trying to keep the FBI as powerful as possible. If the Company proposed a joint venture that he didn't want to undertake but whose goal could be achieved by the OSO, he could turn the Company down and alert the OSO. In exchange for services rendered, involving funding and files, he would be given access to Company files."

"You're joking? They allowed that maniac to view Company files? And allowed this shadow agency to have access to _foreign and domestic_ files? Not even the Company has access to FBI files without written consent."

Control gritted his teeth, waiting for Robert to finish.

McCall took out the handwritten note in his pocket. "And that's what all this is about? An illegal mafia – with no Congressional oversight – being run through the Executive branch for the past 50 years?" McCall tapped Control's note and quoted the poem from memory _"And I cannot hate the Kaiser (I hope you understand.)_"

Control finished for him, nodding grimly, "_Yet I chase the thing he stands for with a brickbat in my hand._" He glanced at the note. "I thought I told her to destroy that."

"Well she didn't, and you'd better be goddamned glad, it locked us on to the fact that you might not be a straight heart attack victim a lot sooner."

Control shook his head, "it had nothing to do with this." He looked around at his cell and the transmitter, "until now."

McCall sighed. "Go on."

"Hoover was happy with the trade – he wanted more than anything to get into the Company files, and this deal allowed him to do it. So the OSO was able to work as a, _very small _mind you, foreign and domestic intelligence service answerable to the president only. It had ample funds and was supported by both American intelligence organizations. By using monies skimmed off the top, the Treasury Department had no clue what was happening behind its back. Because of Hoover's support, the organization was allowed to plant agents in strategic positions within the FBI which continue today – allowing it to bypass politically appointed directors because they had no knowledge of the shadow agency."

"When do we get to Alice and the little white rabbit?" McCall was at a loss for words. "Control, this is not only the most flagrant abuse of 'democratic' power I've ever heard of, its damned frightening! And I suppose the Company director today has no knowledge of its existence? . . . I'm hoping for a happy ending here somewhere – I'm hoping it was destroyed or shut down years ago!"

Mickey quietly waited, letting the two older men get it all off their chests.

"_At any rate_," Control waited for Robert to interrupt him. When he didn't, Control continued. "It still exists. The three organizations – OSO, FBI, and the Company – have always been linked because of joint members in the OSO. Later, the rogue agency planted agents in the NSA, DIA and other organizations; although it wasn't really necessary since the Company itself has access to all the other agency files except the FBI. So, the OSO shadow agency has had unquestioned access to all US intelligence files since then and has continued to perform black bag jobs in the US and abroad using its own illegal allocations and a few privatized funds by the wealthier aspects of the organization when needed. Over the years, the OSO's ties to the Company have grown looser with fewer operatives in strategic places – only a select few key agents here and there. The OSO is able to carry out far swifter assignments in both intelligence and counterintelligence than either the Company or FBI because of its lack of bureaucracy. Although it still uses privatized funds, individuals are hard pressed to manipulate it because of its strict internal policies. Former directors of the OSO have been very aware of the power problem posed by a shadow agency and have made certain that members asked to join have been trustworthy. They have a sentence of automatic death for the disregard of internal policy. A policy they have carried out a number of times," he added, grimly. "Internal policy also authorizes immediate assassination of its members if there is little chance that they can be rescued before critical intelligence information is leaked. Because of their internal policies and the ultra top secret nature of the organization, they have had no defectors and leakages, I repeat – _zero defectors_, in the same time that Company has had numerous defectors and double agents. No other intelligence organization has been able to pull off such a coup." _But if they ever did,_ he thought, _it would mean disaster_.

Robert stared at his friend, trying not to think the worst but confronting it just the same. "The way you are talking, Control, one would have to be foolish not to get the feeling that you are implying you are a member of this bloody organization! Correct me if I'm wrong."

Control broke Robert's intense gaze and turned uncomfortably. Neither Mickey or Robert's expressions offered any sympathy.

McCall's utter confidence that his old friend was, at heart, a good individual was beginning to shatter. His anger was beyond words. He had always thought that Control, even if he lied, was ultimately working for the same thing he was – justice in some warped sense of the word or that Control had, at least, a low threshold for injustice. The existence of the Sandstar Confederacy and Control's work to free prisoners of conscience at the risk of his own life if he was found out by the Company had been proof of this. But being involved in the OSO would undermine all that work and more. This organization sounded worse than the Company, Robert's own personal nightmare, because of the lack of Congressional oversight, and everything that would allow such a shadow agency to do, unsupervised. McCall's fury fed upon the knowledge that he had so trusted Control, numerous times. Trying to reason with his own anger he said, "I would hope that you joined this organization long ago as a youthful mistake. Because if you joined lately, in your knowledgeable old age, I cannot say that I could find it anywhere in my heart to forgive you." McCall felt he had given Control an opportune out, and waited to see if Control would take it.

Control folded his arms, refusing to look at McCall.

"My god man! What were you thinking? When did you join this organization?" McCall's voice rose two decibels.

"It was recently _forced_ on me, Robert."

"Oh, it was forced on you, was it? I'm not so sure about that. I have never known you to readily agree to _anything_ you didn't want to do."

"Listen, Old Son, it is not what it sounds like . . ."

McCall cut him off. "Really? Because what it sounds like is you are a member of a covert operation which has no oversight and which can damn well kill, maim, and torture anyone it very well pleases. In return, you have the power to do the same. Something I had thought you were well above, but apparently, _I was wrong_."

McCall's last words bit into Control, scathing his pride. His voice finally rose to match McCall's; he had enough of Robert's greater-than-thou morality speech for one day. "You want the whole truth, Robert?" _As much as I dare give you, anyway?_ "All right, fine! I had no idea this organization existed before last Tuesday – the same day Kostmayer's team broke into the embassy." _Massaging the truth, _he liked to call it_. "_The second assault team was an OSO retrieval team whose mission was the same as Kostmayer's – recovery of certain incriminating documents against the USG and the President. They had no idea our team was going in or they wouldn't have been there. Two of our agents killed, two more seriously hurt. If our team hadn't been using chemical bullets because they were at an embassy on domestic soil, three of their agents would have died as well. It was, at best, a massive miscommunication between joint OSO and Company agents."

He spread his hands in futility, "I was approached the same night, and before that time I had no knowledge of the OSO organization – none whatsoever. As the Company agent in charge of both northern and southern hemisphere operations with hands on access – and in view of the recent miscommunication problems between their organization and ours – they decided I was a prime candidate for recruitment."

Control paused, lowering his voice and reining in his emotion. His next words were said with an intensity that stopped even McCall from responding. "I was given 24 hours to make a decision, Robert. And every moment of those 24 hours, I was wracked with indecision. But I decided that if I did agree to become a member of this organization, I had a much better possibility of reining it in and bringing it back under Congressional oversight. Such an undertaking might damn well be impossible, but even when the OSO agents arrived for my decision, I had not fully made up my mind. What they did not know was that I had already seen their agents loading their guns beforehand, and I assure you Robert that I would not have walked out of that meeting alive had I said no. Just knowing about the OSO's continued existence determined that had I said no, I was a big enough security threat to kill."

McCall's fury level had dropped and he shook his head, not knowing what to say. After a minute or two of uncomfortable silence, he finally responded, "and that would explain your personal preoccupation when Simpson returned."

Control slouched, deflated. "I handed him over to Ellen for questioning. I had complete confidence in her, and I know you hold her in high regard as well. I'm sure he already had his story straight a thousand times before speaking with her, but yes, yes, I guess I was preoccupied." Control calmed himself, but all of a sudden, he spun on his heel and pointed at McCall, his frustration exploding. His rage seemed directed at himself as much as the situation. "Goddamnit, Robert!" he growled in a dangerous low tone, "you and I both know an organization like this can't be reined in from the outside. It would disappear into the shadows, but it would never dissipate. You can't go to the newspapers, there's not enough evidence, and even if there was, you can't leak classified information about our agents to the world without repercussions. Let alone the fact that it would utterly destroy the President, when all of them – _all of them – _did the same goddamned thing. Not one of them since Truman washed his hands of this affair. The only way – _the only way _– is from the inside." He sank to the bench, his hand rubbing his mouth. "I've been through every option," he sighed, "over and over again; this was the only way."

McCall scowled. "You could have confronted the President."

"You don't think I tried that? Of course he doesn't want to give up that kind of authority. And what do you think would happen if I pushed, Robert? The one thing you've never understood is when to fall back . . . . The best chance is at the next inauguration, with the next president, before he gets too comfortable with the reins of power."

McCall's frustration with the turn of events was evident. "So you are going to play this nasty little game for two years until a new president is inaugurated and hope, _hope_, that you stay alive long enough to see it through _and_ that the new president is democratic enough to shut this sordid venture down? And what if he doesn't? What then? What kind of backup plan do you have?"

Control shook his head, softly saying, "What would you have me do, Robert? There's no other way off this ledge."

McCall narrowed his eyes at Control but said nothing. They sat there wordlessly, an uncomfortable silence weighing heavily on the room. Finally, Kostmayer interrupted warily. "What's our timeframe here, Control?"

Control tried to shake off emotions that had been building since he had received the courier drop in November. Instead, he concentrated on the problem at hand, "My best guess is around 24 hours. I figure we've used up a good 20, so we haven't got much time. OSO officials would have been alerted at the same time as the Company when the transmitter signal went off – because an OSO agent either reported it from the Company or the OSO read the communication themselves. They have my personal transmitter frequency."

"And uh . . . what kind of damage are we looking at?"

"I think an air assault would be likely."

Mickey whistled slowly. Control looked at him and back at Robert. Control's head was pounding, his blood pressure was up, and he needed to lay down again. His internal clock told him another hour was almost gone, and he was going to rest for a moment before the guards came back for "questioning." Control had no doubt that the General planned to do more than speak in a civilized tone and ask questions, and he was unsure how much he would be able to take in his present state.

"Control, from what you've just told us, this is no time to be going to sleep," McCall half-heartedly protested. But Control had already closed his eyes, not responding to McCall. After a moment, silence reigned in the little cell. McCall was frustrated with Control, and Kostmayer was trying to think of a way out.

As if on cue, the clomping of two guards' boots returned. Control's eyes remained closed as he pictured the guard in his mind; he could tell only two sets of boots were moving down the hall toward the cell. He regulated his breathing concentrating on the sound, and heard McCall and Mickey step back against the other side of the cell. The far end of the cell was empty; he was on the left of the cell and Robert and Mickey were on the right.

One of the guards motioned with his rifle for McCall and Kostmayer to stay put as the other guard slung his rifle over his shoulder and lightly touched Control. Control did not respond, so the guard kneeled near him and shook a little harder, speaking in Serbian to his colleague. Control sensed the shift of the other guard's attention toward him, and his gun had probably swept away from Robert and Mickey, at least a little. Control's eyes opened, catching the guard kneeling before him off guard. At the same time, his hand darted toward the soldier's pistol, a Browning automatic 9mm Hi-Power Mark III conveniently placed in a holster on the hip nearest Control. McCall saw what Control was doing as soon as Control's hand moved. As the second guard had turned slightly, distracted by his partner, Robert knocked the gun toward the way it was already turning – away from him and Kostmayer. Control already had the pistol out of the holster and fired directly into the belly of the soldier, his body crashing to the floor. Meanwhile, as McCall pushed the gun of the other soldier away, Mickey caught his neck and expertly broke it.

McCall and Kostmayer stripped the two guards of the remaining Browning, two AK-47's, and two standard issue knives. McCall then followed Control out of the cell. Control had his newfound Browning in hand, and he was quickly checking the clip. It was a standard thirteen-bullet clip, but the chamber had been empty and he had used one, so he had eleven bullets to go. He motioned for Mickey and Robert to follow him, his face regaining some of the color it had been missing for a day.

At the entrance to the tiny jail corridor, Control waited at the doorjamb, fighting a wave of nausea and the remaining sedatives in his bloodstream. Mickey stepped past Control, swinging the door open enough for a hairline crack and peered through. He could see no one close by. Pressing on the hinge, he made sure the door would not squeak. He held it open long enough for McCall and Control to squeeze through, and then followed the other two. Once inside the large warehouse, they could see the General's men scattered throughout the building. They slid behind a few boxes, analyzing the situation and trying to figure out what to do. The gunfire had been silenced by the ongoing activity in the main warehouse and the thick door. No one seemed to have noticed, yet.

Mickey turned suddenly, ready to fire. Behind him, Isra stopped short with her hands up. "Easy!" she whispered. And then she motioned for the group to follow her. McCall looked at Control, and Control looked at McCall. Control had been unaware Nasari had been asked along on the little venture, and he stared at McCall momentarily before shrugging it off. _The more, the merrier_, he thought. They followed Nasari's silent footsteps, leading to a side door. Stairs led both up and down, but there was no ground door. Nasari motioned that they should follow her up the stairs, and they did so. They reached the top of the stairs, the door slightly open with a communications room crawling with Serbian enlisted men. She slipped past the door, continuing up a much narrower and older set of stairs which led into the ceiling. At the top, Isra carefully lifted a panel out of place, revealing the building's tiny attic. Her three companions followed her, not without some silent protest.

"Isra, we are trying to leave, not take a tour," McCall whispered after he had determined they were out of hearing range from the Serbs. She lifted herself up the enclosure and waited silently for the others to follow. She seemed delightfully proud of herself, and the reason was not evident until McCall was standing on the rickety old wood floor beside her. He peered behind the boxes covering the chamber and finally saw what she was so proud of. In a corner, Simpson was tied up a gag in his mouth.

"Besides running across a little something downstairs, I found a couple of toys up here." She moved over to the crates beside Ty and opened one revealing various mechanical parts for fighter aircraft and other military weapons. Mickey fingered the crates with a look of complete happiness.

Control replaced the Browning in the shoulder strap still over his tuxedo vest. He took off his tuxedo jacket, throwing it on a crate and rolled up his sleeves. Laying his coat on the crate next to Simpson, he pulled the gag out of Simpson's mouth.

McCall eyed him. He was not sure what Control would do, but he concluded removing the gag was suspect. Simpson, if he yelled at the top of his lungs, could no doubt alert the soldiers downstairs. Instead of saying anything, he fastened his eyes on Control's back and waited for his friend's next move. Simpson did not scream, did not move. He merely watched Control wide-eyed, sweat evident on his brow. Control pulled up another crate and sat down facing Simpson at eye level, re-tucking his shirt, checking his suspenders and re-buttoning his vest. When he had finished, he paused a moment, looking over his subject.

"All right, Ty," he said softly. "Let's have it."

"Control," McCall turned Control's shoulder, "for God's sakes, man. He sold you out. Do you think he is going to talk now?" McCall was certain this was not the best way to handle a conspirator, but Control held up his index finger, indicating he needed a moment with Simpson. McCall released Control's shoulder and leaned against a sloping wall, waiting to see what Control was up to and willing to see what he might have up his sleeves.

Ty looked up at McCall. He had heard about McCall from various Company associates, but he had never actually met the famous ex-Company operative. He had overheard more than one agent spewing venom toward McCall, several wouldn't have minded if he'd wound up dead. But it was well known within the Company that McCall was hands off, he was protected by Control and, in any event, was considered one of the Company's deadliest agents. In addition, McCall had other old friends at the Company, many who had risen high in the Company ranks. He could feel McCall's intense gaze burning into him, and he looked at the ground before responding.

"Roger and I _were_ set up, but we could not turn the communications array off in time. General Sivincic knew we were American operatives and killed Roger to get to me. I would not have sold out the Company, but he had Tatijana." His voice teetered and his jaw began to shake a little. "He had her whole family – he killed Roger and her brother just like that," he snapped his fingers, "in front of me – in front of us. They – she and her family – are still being held in the basement – I know my oath and my duty, but I couldn't be responsible for the death of a whole family, Control, I couldn't do it! They were innocent." He did not look for sympathy, but he looked up for a reaction. Control's stone cold expression made him swallow hard, but he continued. "Sivincic is a calculating man. He was furious at our betrayal, and he wanted to make an example of us. But first, he planned to find out if there were any other operatives under his command – he would not be made a fool again. So, he promised Tatijana and her family's life in exchange for information on the operation and my help in finding out if and who the other operatives were. You were the only man who had ready access to that information. I knew that you had seen the recent list of operatives in Serbian territory during my debriefing, so Sivincic decided to bring you here for questioning and a visual confirmation of agents before he put them to death as a warning to other governments."

McCall snorted. If anything, Control was the last person who would give out that information. McCall had a hard enough time getting anything out of him, let alone a deranged, revenge-seeking, foreign general. Control was not saying anything, and McCall rolled his eyes. He dragged Control to a private corner and questioned him, "You don't believe him do you? He has gone to a great length of trouble to very nearly get you killed and then drag you off to a foreign country he has obviously been turned to. He has now been captured by the people he turned against, and shockingly – he happens to start singing a different tune. Who wouldn't?"

Control listened quietly and finally spoke softly. "I didn't turn on the transmitter on the flight over." McCall's face blanked, confusion on his face. "Simpson transmitted the signal. I couldn't even raise a finger let alone press a button for fifteen seconds, they had me on so many sedatives. He could have just as easily thrown the damned thing away, but he didn't."

"Great." McCall did not like the sound of this. "And what do you propose we do with him," McCall nodded at Simpson.

Control sighed. "I don't know, Old Son, I just don't know. But," he held up a finger, managing a half smile, "as you said, you are in charge of the mission."

"Oh well thank you, thank you very much." McCall said, mildly exasperated. "Now, seeing as we have very little time to get out of here before your own people kill us, would you like to weigh in on whether we try to rescue this so-called family downstairs?"

"I don't have to weigh in, I know you too well to recognize what the answer will be, regardless of whether I protest or not."

McCall did not indicate he agreed with Control's deduction, but if what Simpson said was true, Control was right. He was not going to leave an innocent family to be slaughtered by soldiers.

McCall strolled back over to Simpson and cut his hands loose. He leaned down and hissed, "_I am watching you_."

Simpson rubbed his raw wrists as McCall scowled at him. Finally Robert turned away from Ty and said, "Mickey – let's open up these crates and see what we have."


	13. Chapter 13

The brunette woman returned within the hour with an update. "Sir, we were using a triangle satellite pattern to locate the phoenix, but his signal has vanished. Here are the last known coordinates."

"Was the signal stationary at the last known time of transmission?"

"It had been stationary within a half a klick radius for at least three hours at that time sir."

"What was the time?"

"1700 Zulu time, sir." The station chief looked at his watch. It was now 2000 hours. The woman continued, "Divisions one and twelve have reported in, all sectors. The proper equipment has been uncovered and fueled – or borrowed as the case may be. We have personnel in the quadrant ready to go on command."

"Do we have word in from the Vice Chairman?"

"It's a go from him, sir."

"Then, get all Division commanders on the line."

"Already done."

The man lit another cigar and picked up the black phone. "Approval for action, Code red on the phoenix requested."

After hearing the divisions and sectors grant their approval in a long string, he confirmed his own quadrant.

"White Quadrant fully approved and verified," he confirmed. "Full approval by all sectors, all divisions, all quadrants" he continued. "Mission confirmed. Refer to internal policy for immediate orders, division twelve. Division one is sending coordinates immediately. Should you be intercepted or questioned, you have full compromise authority. Disregard collateral damage concerns. Station chief, Division one, out."

* * *

After they had opened the contents of the various boxes, they found some equipment the entire team was happy to see. Nasari had found a Carl Gustav M-2, a Swedish shoulder-fired 84-mm rifle. She leaned forward against one of the boxes, checking the scope that she was attaching from another crate. Mickey came up behind her and laid down the bundle he was carrying. "Hey, ya need some help with that?" He reached an arm out to help adjust the scope.

She turned, a polite smile on her face but hostility evident in her eyes. "Would you mind removing your Acquisition and Guidance Package from the equipment?"

Mickey backed up, his hands in the air and a look of surprise on his face. "Sorry, I didn't know you were so sensitive."

McCall, who happened to be walking by, said softly as he passed Mickey's ear, "I think she meant the missile detection and guidance system at your feet."

Mickey realized he had laid a part of the shoulder-fired missile system against a sensitive part of a ballistic missile radar system. It was not attached to anything and wasn't working, but the equipment cost thousands of dollars. "I knew that, _I knew that_!" he protested. Mickey smiled bashfully at Isra and picked up the package, transporting to the other side of the room.

Isra sighed as she adjusted the scope, "We could be here all night trying to get this stuff in working order."

Mickey returned, his arms empty. "Hey, if it takes all night, it takes all night. I had to stay up 96 hours on an operation once."

"That is why," McCall said, looking over the stash, "we have you youngsters around - to do the work that requires staying up all night."

"Hey Robert," Control pointed to his holster, "any idea what happened to my gun? I'd hate to have a gun registered to me floating around on the streets of New York – that and it was a gift from Ben Silver, so I'd rather not lose it."

"Yes, yes," McCall adjusted his glasses, "I secured it at the party. I would have stopped by my apartment to pick it up for you, but I was in a mild hurry since _I thought you were dead_. Next time, I will pack a bag for you."

Control concurred, "Good. Make a note of that. And put a bottle of bourbon in there as well." McCall slapped Control on the back, amused by Control's good humor in a tense situation.

"If you were in this good of a mood every time you died . . ." McCall cracked, prompting a scowl from Control.

"We're getting too old for this," he noted.

"Yes," McCall agreed, "yes, we are."

* * *

Below them, the soldiers had bustled about since the prisoners had been discovered missing. Before meeting the others in the hallway, Isra had the foresight to create a diversionary route outside that looked as though the prisoners had exited the installation, and many of the soldiers had been sent out to hunt for them beyond the East gate. Predictably, they were periodically reporting in that they had found nothing. With less soldiers inside the installation, the group was more likely to be able to escape unseen.

After they double checked their gear, Simpson led the group back down the old stairs, past the communications network, pausing a moment breathlessly as a pair of soldiers walked by, conversing. The group continued down the stairs, making it to the basement.

Mickey was forced to use crude components of the equipment that they had found to disarm the door's control panel. After an aggravating four minutes, he finally triumphed and pushed the door open. Isra, Mickey, and Ty darted in, covering the room.

"You know, Control," McCall stopped him with an arm, whispering, "I suppose we could just let the youngsters do all the dirty work." They grinned, knowingly, waiting a moment until most of the scuffling stopped, then entered the room.

"Thanks, guys." Kostmayer said as he had a soldier's gun pointed at the soldier's own neck and his arm twisted behind him. "You guys are a great help. Huge."

"A little exercise never hurt you, Mickey," McCall commented dryly.

Isra and Ty had already moved off again in the direction of a storehouse door. Mickey looked at the door's electronic security control panel for a moment. Instead of grappling with it, he kicked the door in. Ty went in first, shedding light on the cold figures inside. He hugged Tatijana and helped her family members to their feet. He spoke to them in Serbian saying, "Come on, we haven't got much time." Mickey waved a quick goodbye to the group, telling them he would meet them outside. He dashed back up the stairs, unseen, to the attic.

The family was herded out of the cell, and Isra led the group back up the stairs to the ground floor, waiting at the closed door. She looked at her watch, counting slowly. She placed his hand on the door, waiting.

Mickey kicked out the attic's window with his foot. He spoke to himself, shouldering the Carl Gustov M-2 and aiming it toward an ammunitions building nearby. "Ok, Carl, it's you and me, time to do some dirty work." He fired the M-2 directly into the munitions armory, creating a fiery explosion.

* * *

Isra threw her shoulder into the door and waved the family to follow her to cover behind an ATV nearby. Massive confusion reigned inside the building as soldiers ran outside to see what had happened, and Isra and Ty covered the family as they made their way through the building toward another side door, this one leading outside. Control and Robert guarded the rear as Ty opened the alarmed door. With the confusion on the ground, the alarm didn't make any difference.

* * *

Mickey threw a rappelling line out of the window, disregarding the nearby soldiers who were trying to partition off the flames so that they would not jump to other highly explosive weapons and buildings. He smirked to himself as he jumped out of the window and down the building. Once he reached the ground, he withdrew a knife stashed in his boot, swiftly cutting the line, and ran toward a truck parked nearby.

* * *

Isra opened the door and scanned the horizon for hostile soldiers, but she didn't see any. Apparently, no one had seen Mickey, and they had mistakenly thought something else had caused the fire in the munitions building. Mickey waved at her, indicating he could not start the truck without calling attention to himself. It was only a hundred yards away, but they would have to run for it. Isra and Ty covered most of the distance first and waved the family to follow them. They helped the family into the back of the truck, getting them safely inside. Mickey waved to McCall and Control who were covering the rear with their Brownings drawn as Isra jumped in the back of the truck, covered by Ty on the ground. McCall tapped Control to follow Mickey, but Control reeled from an unexpected wave of nausea, and he motioned for McCall to go first so he would have a moment to recover. McCall ducked into the open air.

At that moment, two soldiers appeared in front of Ty. Even as he opened fire, they riddled his body with bullets. But Ty decisively took one soldier with him. Isra could not move to help Robert in the open as Tatijana tried to jump out of the truck toward Ty, and Isra was forced to grab the woman to hold her back. The other soldier turned toward Robert, who could not have brought his gun up in time to save himself. Control saw the two soldiers appear, and he was forced to step partially out into the open to get a clear shot at the remaining soldier before the soldier could fire at Robert. Even without his glasses, Control was able to hit the soldier broadside as the soldier's finger squeezed the trigger. Control's shot wasn't fatal, but it spun the soldier and his gun as he fired toward McCall, forcing the shot to miss its intended target. McCall brought up his gun in time to finish him off and then turned back toward his friend.

Another soldier had been walking by in the distance, focused on the munitions fire. But the sound of gunfire turned his attention toward the activity on his left. Seeing Control take aim at his comrade, he pulled his own pistol out. He was able to get two shots off at Control, only his right side visible through the doorway. Control felt the impact of the bullet roaring through his body. Immediately, he felt a familiar burning sensation in his shoulder and the wind knocked out of him. The impact of the two bullets slammed him forward as they exited, but his hand quickly reached to catch the door frame, as his right knee gave in to the force.

Control had been shot before, but nothing like this. The familiar burning in his shoulder was nothing compared to the absolute agony vibrating in his chest. A terrible cauldron of fire broiled within the right side of his chest, inflamed by each new breath he tried to take. Inflate, explode. Collapse, release. Agony, then peace. _Goddamnit. _He could not breathe, could not think. It was strangling him from within, a pain ripping through the flesh, overtaking the brain, and making everything else in the world seem secondary to its overwhelming power.

As McCall turned to Control, he saw the third gunman open fire. He dropped and returned Control's favor by picking off the soldier with his Browning. But even as the soldier fell, McCall heard Control grunt, leaning heavily on the doorframe and falling to his right knee.

"The hell!" McCall said in frustration and waved his finger in a circle, indicating to Mickey to drive over, regardless of the attention it would attract – but quick. Mickey fired up the truck's engine just as Isra dragged Ty into the back of the truck with the assistance of Tatijana. Mickey slammed on the gas to McCall's position at the doorway as other soldiers began running toward them. Isra and McCall pulled the stunned Control into the truck as Mickey raced out of the compound, dodging the steel barriers by driving directly through the wire fence in an area without a road. Gunshots rang out behind them, taking out one of the truck's tires, but Mickey shifted into the next gear, resolute in his attempt to get out of the compound. He hoped it wouldn't tear off his axle, but he was ready to drive it into the ground to get out of there.

He drove south across the countryside and then made for the main road, knowing the military could not very well bomb one of their own vehicles without good reason in front of its citizens. As he drove, he heard a semi-familiar sound and saw two unmarked twin F-16 Fighting Falcons diving toward the compound they had just left. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing how close they had been to being part of the inferno which would start in a few minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

"Foxfire, this is Locksmith. Pull up. Let's take another look around. Repeat, pull up." The pilot flipped a switch on his communication array. "Cape Town, we have a large fire on the ground. Target has already been hit. Repeat target has ground fire. Ammunitions target has been destroyed. Request guidance. Over." The two F-16's flew in a wide circle to take another view of the damage.

Five hundred miles away, an American communications operator violently pulled his superior over to the communications panel.

"Fuck! What the hell happened?" The man calmed himself, thinking over possibilities. "Radio command immediately." He saw the operator trying to raise command. He hit a nearby array button. "Locksmith, Foxfire, this is Cape Town. Hold position at anchor."

He waited for command before giving further instructions, and the musician pointed at him, indicating he had command on the horn. "Yeah, we've got a problem. Target already has ground fire. Pilots are requesting guidance."

Across the ocean, the man with the cigar stamped it out. He turned to the brunette, indecisive. "You sure about the report on McCall?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, maybe they got him out," he said, reluctantly, "have the planes do another flyby."

* * *

A moment later the planes parted and one flew by again, but this time the team leader noticed something suspicious. "Cape Town, this is team leader Locksmith. I have a visual on a military land transport vehicle leaving the base. Confirmed; it is crippled. Over."

"Cape Town, this is Foxfire. I  
have another visual confirmation – a portion of the base's security perimeter has been broken, repeat, broken perimeter. Looks like the surprise is out of the bag. Over." The two planes met in formation again.

"Oh shit! Cape Town, this is Locksmith again. We've got two bogeys coming out of nowhere on radar. I'm blind – can't see 'em."

"Locksmith, I've got your six." The other pilot returned. "I've got positive visual ID. Our two bandits are Fulcrums."

The pilot looked at his radar, unable to see the two Serbian Mikoyan MiG-29 Fulcrums from the air yet, but knowing they were closing quickly. "They're powering up for a lock-on – do we have clearance to take these bandits down?"

"You are cleared hot on the bandits, abort anchor attack. Lose those MiG's and return to base. Return pattern Goose Song to home plate. Over and out."

Locksmith rolled his plane a last time. He wasn't loaded with Sidewiders for air-to-air combat, just air-to-surface missiles to bomb the compound, and his 20 mm Gattling cannon was no substitute for the MiG's 30 mm. He would have to meet these boys in battle some other day. He barrel rolled the F-16 out, waving a thumbs up to the other Falcon before they separated the MiG's and headed out of town. Fortunately, they were pretty close to Croatian air space, and the Serbs would break their attack off at the border.

The two pilots continued their jinkout maneuvers to prevent enemy guns from tracking them. The pilots kept a careful watch on the missile lock warning, but no lock came – allowing them to make it across to the Croatian border. A dogfight would have been fun, but it was better not to down an enemy aircraft when they were not at war. Besides, they had attracted enough attention already.

* * *

The man chomped on the cigar. The planes had been able to identify a busted tire on the truck, but it was still limping out of the area. They wouldn't be able to make it far, and the Serbs would be searching the area. They would have to find the phoenix first or the Serbs would. Either way, they would have to change their plans.

The army base was strategically placed to serve as a border checkpoint with Kosovo. The border tower hovered high over the army's supply base, the soldiers inside tracking the truck. The truck had headed south, immediately crossing the border. It was on the main road now, having first dodged army checkpoints. The truck leaned heavily to one side, attracting attention, one tire shot out but still able to hold the weight of the truck. Mickey knew it wouldn't go much further, and the truck's fate was sealed when he saw the empty light come on her gas gauge. He tapped it. It had been full when they had left, and it was barely fifteen minutes later. The tank line had been hit with gunfire too. Thank god it hadn't blown. He pulled the truck over, and hopped out. Even before he could see the nine individuals in the rear, he could hear their excited multilingual chatter.

* * *

"Damn, damn, damn! This is worse than Beirut." McCall reloaded his gun as he glanced at Control, a concerned look on his face. He had been covering the truck's rear, without a chance to evaluate Control's situation until well after they had left the base. He jerked his head to Isra, indicating she should continue covering their rear, and he pushed his way through the truck toward his friend. Control was leaning heavily against the far wall of the truck, his eyes bright but clearly in pain.

"Are you all right? Where are you hit?"

By now, Control had reined in the overwhelming waves of pain, trying to keep them at bay. "Shoulder," he managed, "wind . . . knocked . . . out." He wheezed, still trying to regain his air, "We've got," he drank in more air before continuing, "other problems." He waved to the surrounding hillside, referencing their pursuers.

"I'll be the judge of that," McCall said gently, "it's my mission, remember?" He glanced at Control's black tuxedo coat, shining with dark wetness near the shoulder. The entry point was high, on his shoulder, just under the collarbone – as long as it didn't hit an artery, it wasn't serious. He knew Control had sustained an old injury at practically the same spot several years ago when targeted as he left Company offices; it had been minor and had healed quickly.

He noticed Control's other hand had disappeared into his jacket, holding his ribs. McCall's eyes narrowed, and he pulled back Control's jacket, seeing the real source of Control's agony. The right side of his shirt was stained a dark red. Losing blood was going to be a problem, but that could be stopped. He saw the other entry wound, smeared with warm blood. It was much lower than the other one and much more dangerous.

"It's not your wind," McCall said grimly, "this one's hit your lung." His voice was low, concerned. He looked up, meeting Control's eyes, and after 40 years of field operations together and the comradery that it had begotten, their brief glance exchanged a world of information. They both knew this time, it was serious.

"Get . . . them . . . out of . . . here," Control managed, jerking his head toward the family, trying not to flinch against the crushing pain.

"My mission," McCall corrected him, firmly.

At that moment, the truck stopped, and McCall heard Mickey's door open, as he circled around the back to talk to his passengers. Noticing Mickey's head looming over the back gate in the back, McCall put a reassuring hand on Control's other shoulder and squeezed it, meaningfully. "Hang on, old friend."

He turned toward Mickey behind him. "Why have we stopped?"

"We have no left, rear tire."

"Yeah, we noticed." Isra quipped, rubbing her backside. She felt like she had been tossed around like a sack of potatoes.

"And now we have no gas," Mickey added. More than one moan emanated out of the back of the truck.

"All right, Mickey – stop a car, let's get out of here." McCall commanded.

Mickey stopped a large van and assured the driver he would get a check in the mail for it – just to charge it to the Serb government's tab. The driver could not understand the English Mickey spoke, but he was well aware of the gun Mickey was waving. Mickey took over the driver's seat of the new vehicle, but turned around to find McCall. "Hey, McCall – I don't know where we're going. Just drive?"

"Continue south and try to get off the main road. They will set up a roadblock sometime soon." Then, in a lower tone, out of earshot of the patient, he added, "look for anything resembling a hospital."

Mickey glanced at him. "Right," he jammed the van into drive, gunned the motor, and sped away. As he did so, Tatijana's mother – who was riding shotgun – began to talk in an excited, fast-paced manner. Mickey glanced at her and yelled at the back of the van. "Hey, I don't speak Serbian, McCall!" But McCall's concentration was elsewhere as the van was filled with frightened speech in English and Serbian.

McCall returned to Control, noting that he was visibly getting worse. The color had drained from his perspiring face, his ashen skin was cold and clammy, and his breathing was heightened and shallow. "No . . . hospitals," he erratically gulped for air, veins surging out of his neck. He immediately regretted trying to speak as ripples of pain turned into pounding surges in his chest. He coughed harshly, wiping blood from his mouth on his left sleeve. That hurt the most of all. His muscles forbade him to try it again, but he could feel blood ebbing at his throat, daring him to let it choke him. In response, he gritted his teeth. His jaws were already aching from the force, but he could not feel it through the force of the spasms of pain pushing against his chest, ripping, searing, severing.

"Let me worry about that," McCall corrected him, putting a hand to his temple, trying to think quickly. He was painfully aware of the difficulty of their situation. Control was right, Kosovo was still a part of Serbia and any gunshot wounds would have to be reported. That would bring a quick inquiry by the Serbian police, which would lead to the Serbian army, which would lead to . . . well, he was not prepared to think about that. McCall thought back, trying as hard as he could to remember any Serbian. It hadn't been his sector, but he had a few assignments there as a young agent. Suddenly, a few select words from his past came to him.

"Izvinjavam se! Izvinite mozzete li da mi pomognet?" he quieted the talking in the van. "Da li govorite Engleski?" he looked around at the unfamiliar faces staring at him. "Trazzim nekoga ko govori Engleski?"

The father boomed, "Ne razumem. Tatijana?" and looked at his daughter questioningly.

He saw Tatijana nervously raise her hand slightly. "Zdravo, da, razumem."

McCall looked back at the father, "Puno hvala." He turned to the young woman. "You can speak English?"

"Tako je. I mean, da . . . yes, but small. I learn from school, and it is bad for me. Speak slow."

McCall nodded and said slowly. "Is there any safe place we can go where there is a doctor?"

Tatijana translated the question to her parents and grandparents. Her grandmother answered quickly waving toward the countryside and then to herself. The other passengers in the car seemed surprised, even shocked after she finished speaking.

"What does she say?" Robert asked.

"Yes. There is safety. She is part Albanian, but we no hear this before. Grandfather is angry, he no hear she Albanian before. She say she has relative living ah . . . near? Yes, near here. He will give safety."

"A doctor?" McCall asked, hoping.

"No, but he call doctors to come house."

"How long?"

Tatijana turned back to her grandmother, but she shook her head, unknowing. McCall turned back to Control, noting his worsening condition as Isra tried to stop the bleeding. McCall looked down, shaking his head slightly. The grandmother saw this gesture and turned back to Tatijana, speaking swiftly. Tatijana turned to McCall with the translation.

"She says she maybe take you to field hospital, but she no sure. She read letter and think she know how go, but she say she no travel these roads for 45 years. She no know if can find house with doctors – her relative will know for sure."

McCall replied, "Tell her we do not have enough time to go to her relatives. She must try to remember."

Tatijana relayed this information, and the old woman smiled sadly. She moved through the passengers to the front seat, sitting in the passenger seat next to Mickey. Tatijana followed her to translate her words.

Tatijana's father had pulled off a long overshirt, offering it as extra cloth to stop the bleeding. He handed it to Isra, babbling in Serbian.

The wounds were still seeping blood, but they were not flowing torrentially. Isra had McCall rip off lengths of the shirt to wrap around the wounds to try to stop the bleeding. Since the wounds were still bubbling with dark blood, Isra tried putting pressure on the wounds and began to squeeze a major artery in Control's shoulder that was feeding the wounds their blood. After another few minutes in the bumpy car ride, the shoulder entry and exit wounds were slowing, now only dribbling blood. But the pressure she exerted on his chest made him nauseous, doubling and redoubling the pain.

Seeing Control's eyes shut, she gently touched his arm. "You with me?"

Control opened his eyes, his dilated pupils evident, and he blankly stared at her for a moment before grunting a yes. She took his pulse. It was weak and rapid. His breathing was shallow and hurried. His chest rose and fell unnaturally, strangely.

Isra knew Control was likely in shock, so she took off her jacket and covered him up, making sure he was warm. "Stay conscious for me, all right?"

"Mickey," McCall turned to the front. "Pick up the pace as much as this thing can handle." He turned to Tatijana and her grandmother again. "How long will it take us to get there and how far away is the closest hospital?" He waited impatiently for the translation.

"She says not far, maybe 10 minutes. Off road helps make quick. Closest real hospital 45 minutes back," Tatijana gestured back the way they had come.

McCall looked at Control. He saw something he had never seen in Control's eyes before. As he coughed up more blood, Control's eyes held the distinct shimmer of fear. Fear that he would drown on his own blood, suffocate himself, here in the back of this van. McCall glanced away, futilely. They could still try the other hospital if they turned around. The field hospital was still their best hope, though; although it might not be equipped to handle a case as serious as this. Mickey glanced back in the mirror, driving on but waiting for McCall's final decision. McCall waved a hand forward, indicating the field hospital. It was too serious to wait any longer. Mickey slammed on the gas, driving at breakneck speed.


	15. Chapter 15

McCall stayed close to his old friend, bitterly blaming himself for the turn of events that he had not started nor could he change. _Blood and sadness_, he thought. _My life has been a cycle of blood and sadness_. His career, the majority of his life, he had participated in this dirty game, and where had it gotten him? He didn't even know how to help his best friend, who was dying before his very eyes. It was one reason he was drawn to Olivia – she had been trained in how to give life, to save it, to prolong it. He had only been trained in how to take it, without mercy.

McCall realized this was how his own father had died, shot by a bullet he could not see coming. Control looked after him like a father or a trustworthy brother, but their relationship was a complex one, and McCall served as a morale catalyst in Control's cynical world. Control manipulated, lied, and purposefully deceived, but underneath it all, the reason they were still friends, McCall knew that Control still had a moral rudder, buried deep beneath the enigmatic identity he had assumed for the Company. McCall relied on that rudder, and even when Control himself forgot he had it, McCall could unearth it again.

They were alike in many ways, but yet so very different. McCall had lost a daughter, and he knew Control had a similar incident long, long ago, buried deep in his past, something he never talked about. He had never been the same afterwards, burying himself in his work. His regrets had become his security, his planned moves preying on the weaknesses that he had once seen in himself. That's why he was so damned painstakingly careful, why he had more than one apartment, why he kept meticulous notes and exhaustive lists. He was never quite the carefree man Robert had met in the early years. But McCall could still find traces of him, under the shroud of secrecy he wore.

McCall shook off the memories and removed his glasses. The day's events started replaying themselves in his mind, and he couldn't help but blame himself. It was his mission, his mission that had gone wrong. He didn't consider that he had been given no Company resources, that he had personally commandeered a flight at his personal expense, that they had crossed the Atlantic before the MiGs had been able to scramble to bomb Control's location, that he had broken into a military facility with only three people and virtually no time to plan using unreliable facility plans, and that they had no mission-specific training. He didn't consider that he had, in fact, accomplished the impossible. Still, he blamed himself. _Please hurry_, he prayed, willing the van to reach its destination.

* * *

The van came to a stop, finally, in front of a worn out shack. The trip had taken a few accidental wrong turns, but Mickey had patiently worked with Tatijana's grandmother, trying to coax her childhood memories of the local terrain.

The building certainly did not look like any medical unit Mickey had ever seen before. He was losing confidence that this place could do anything. Shutters were falling from the window. The hinges on the door were permanently damaged. But inside, there were people bustling about keeping flickering lives awake a moment longer. Mickey turned to McCall with his hand on the wheel to ask if they shouldn't try the hospital, but a quick glance told him that there wasn't any time for another journey.

A face peered out the window and motioned inside. A moment later, the building's door grated open, revealing three men, two with conspicuous guns in the waistbands of their white cotton pants. The grandmother, Natasa, jumped from the passenger door, precluding Mickey from stopping her. He eyed the guns warily from the driver's side and slowly slid out of the van, the two orderlies returning his stare. McCall stepped out next to Natasa, a firm look upon his face.

The man in the white coat, splattered with blood from earlier activities, obviously a doctor, frowned and asked Natasa what was going on. She quickly explained, and he turned to McCall. "You're American?"

"Yes," McCall replied, obviously relived at having an English speaking doctor present.

"I'm Dr. Aca Cavoski. Is there a problem?"

"Yes, we have an individual with severe gunshot wounds."

The doctor looked past him to the van and waved at the orderlies to help the unconscious Control inside. The Americans were not exactly helping Kosovo, but they were not ignoring their pleas for humanity either. Regardless, Aca was a doctor, and he would uphold the Hippocratic Oath. He ignored McCall, seeing the severity of Control's wounds. He noticed the individual's strained, irregular, jagged breathing as the orderlies helped the man from the van and then turned quickly to McCall. "Do you know his blood type?"

"O negative."

"Lumturi," he yelled into the building, apparently shouting for someone to prepare the blood transfusions. He turned back, "Let's hope we have enough." Aca quickly ran into the building.

McCall followed as he glimpsed Control's body disappear around the corner, Control's unnaturally jagged breathing striking Robert with grim reality. A nurse, dressed in gritty scrubs, stopped him as he tried to pass. She shook her head, as if to say, "_No one is allowed back there_." McCall looked about the room he was in, a make-shift recovery room with IV lines trailing the cracks in the floor. It was not his first choice in hospital ambiance, but all he could do now was wait.

He had expected to see men, young men, pent up in the field hospital, like his days in Egypt. But here, it was not so. Instead, he saw men, women, children, the elderly, absolutely all ages were being treated for major wounds. He saw an older boy with dead eyes, still living, laying next to an older man who had not yet been carried out, already stiff with death, his identity lost in the midst of a flood of terror. He saw a woman whose gray hair could not cover the thrashing she had taken when strangers in the night had forcefully removed her right eye. He saw a young Kosovo man with his leg severed, desolate that he was unable to help his people. These people had endured much lately, and McCall was outraged as he looked around the room, realizing what the government had been perpetrating. He had read in the paper about the recent attack. Fifty civilians, oh no, "terrorists," as the government called them, had been slaughtered in a massacre – almost all were elderly men, women, and children. The circular pattern of human nature made McCall sick to his stomach, and he headed for the door.

Outside, he found Mickey uneasily eyeing him. "You know, McCall, those meds have guns."

"Yes, Mickey, I saw them."

"That's a little odd."

"Not when you have to fight to give people medical attention," came the response from behind McCall. Aca was washing his hands on a steaming hot towel, his scrubs were filled with even more blood. "Dobro vecce," he greeted them. "I've been working a 16 hour shift, and your friend is in pretty dire straits right now, so I turned him over to another doctor while I regain my eyesight and rest a moment." He sat down, taking in a breath of fresh air, something precious when all he usually smelled was blood and death. His eyes closed, his nostrils flared, and a slight smile played across his lips. He opened them a moment later, reacting to the confused expression on the two strangers' eyes. "Sorry, we don't get much peace around here."

"War is hell," McCall said softly.

"Hell has nothing on war." Aca replied. "I thought I'd never work in a place that carried the instruments of my patients' destruction," he jerked his head toward the orderlies' guns, "But I am. I never expected to be doing a lot of things, but I am. I never thought I would see a little boy's face blown off, his mother bringing his limp body to me to 'save.' What do you do when you can do nothing? We are forced to carry guns now; the Serbs would kill us all if they found us. We are 'helping' the enemy. We are traitors to our government. But what about our humanity? Sometimes, I try so hard to do what I think is right, but sometimes I get so frustrated when I see the results are no different."

"I know how you must feel," McCall said, quietly, thinking of his own time in the Company.

Mickey looked at the ground, his hands in his pockets. He had served in the military, but the human cost of war was always sobering. Whenever he came across it, it seemed to grow worse with each scenario, not easier. Humans were so vicious sometimes. A smile curled on his face, he was thinking more and more like McCall all the time. Maybe he was right, maybe he should get out of the Company once and for all. Mickey pushed the thoughts out of his mind, they were for some other time. "How's Control?"

"Control?" Aca was confused. McCall looked at Mickey. Mickey looked at McCall. This was too much to try to explain.

"Yeah, that's his name. He went through a sixties name-change thing. Don't ask."

Aca looked at Mickey pessimistically and then shook his head, deciding it was better not to ask. "Honestly, it doesn't look good. You get shot somewhere else, we worry about bleeding. His shoulder would be fine if that was all there was to it. We patch him up, a little physical therapy and he goes back to work. But this other shot – the one in the lung – we've got shards of ribs all over, and the lung has collapsed creating a vacuum effect. We are trying to remove the shards, stop the bleeding, re-inflate the lung, repair the ribs, pump the extra fluids out of the chest cavity – he's practically drowning on his own blood - and pump in some blood to replace all that he has lost. These cases never look good. The stress to the body is unbelievable." Aca shook his head wearily. He had lost three patients today, three more to add onto his losing scoreboard. "I'm sorry I don't have better news, but I find it is best to be honest." This was not a battle he wanted to wage anymore.

"We appreciate your candor," McCall said, quietly.

Aca looked up gratefully as a nurse handed him a cup of coffee from the doorway. "Puno hvala," he said to her as the door screeched closed. He sipped his coffee silently for a moment, and then looked up. "I'm Serbian, I suppose, you can tell by my name. But I converted to Islam at the age of seventeen. I left here and went to medical school in the states, and then I ended up practicing in Zanzibar for two years where I met my wife before the fighting started. I figured my people needed my help. Now, I live in Kosovo – I am in the middle of the fighting, but torn every way. I am one of them," his hand swept to the distance, "but I am different. The blood bond tears where it should strengthen." He stood up, throwing his coffee onto the ground. His deeply philosophical demeanor immediately struck McCall, who noted his long, lanky stride and weary face. "Listen, you should either get rid of your van or park in the shed out back. If this," he waved back toward the hospital and Control, "has anything to do with the Serbs, they will be out looking for you. And I would rather not call attention to us unless absolutely necessary. Already we are short on medicine. We would be lucky if they did not kill all the patients if they found us. Laku noch." He stood and looked at McCall. Seeing the look of defeat in his eyes, Aca tried to reassure him, "I'll do all I can," but the tired look on his face was unconvincing.

* * *

Mickey found Tatijana and her family after making sure the van was empty. "You'd better leave. The General and his men will be out searching for us, and you don't want to be caught again. His wrath may extend farther than the boundaries of his army base."

Cedomil, Tatijana's father, shook his hand, ushering his parents, wife, and two daughters back into the van. He spoke quickly, and Tatijana translated. "Don't worry, we drive to farm of relatives. They hide van and drive us to south."

After she finished, she looked to the Americans, uncertain about leaving.

McCall looked her squarely in the eye with his hands firmly on her shoulders. "You will be much safer if you go with your parents. Dr. Cavowski speaks English. You must go on and protect your family. We will take care of everything here."

"Thank you," she said sadly, knowing she would never again see this stranger who had rescued her and her family from their terrifying experience. The family shuffled into the van, waving goodbye and yelling out, "Dovidjenja," as they left.

* * *

Aca returned to the ongoing surgery. He looked at the unfamiliar face, eyes closed. As the nurse re-gloved his hands, Aca stared out the dingy window, hoping the MUP police were not scouring the countryside today. The Ministry of the Interior police had started this. No, that was not true, he had to be fair. In the minds of the Serbs, the Kosovo terrorists were real. But they had not deserved this. Certainly the civilians did not deserve this, the women, the children, the elderly. His land was being torn apart, and for all his skill with a needle, he did not know how to mend this rip. He looked back at the man lying before him. Aca dropped his hands, and shook his head.


	16. Chapter 16

Mickey took the black tuxedo jacket the nurse gave to him, already hardened with caked blood. Searching the pockets before he destroyed it, he found a sealed envelope in the inside breast pocket. Fortunately, it was the left breast pocket, opposite the side Control had been shot in, leaving the envelope without bloodstains. Mickey opened the contents, flattening the two creases in the paper, and stared at it. It was not pleasant.

The white paper had two pictures, one on the top and one on the bottom. The one on the top was clearly taken fairly recently. Its film quality was good, clear, and focused. A professional surveillance photo. In it, a petite blond child was playing, beaming at someone off camera with an infectious smile. Mickey could not help but drop the hint of a smile as the little girl smiled up at him, her curls giggling with her.

But his momentary smile was removed by the other photo. The photo on the bottom was grainy and out of focus around the edges. The paper itself had a dull matte finish, as if the best the creator could do was photocopy the original photos. Both were in color, but the bottom picture's quality resembled early commercial color photography. Mickey figured he could date it around the mid-sixties, judging by the quality of the photo and the little girl's blood stained apparel. Her dull eyes held a frightened stare; her head was rolled to one side, covering most of the gaping bullet wound which had formed the puddle by her ear. Her lips were parted slightly, as if a silent yell still echoed from her cold body.

Mickey could not help but notice the red stains running down the right side of her long, dark blond hair, already stiffened by time. The photo made him inwardly wretch. He glanced away, but the photo seduced his eyes to return. He could not stop looking at the photos, the beauty of the two girls, the strong resemblance between them, and the horrid event that one of them had suffered.

Mickey's eyes returned to the bottom photo. The little girl's arms were outstretched; they had landed on the floor as if reaching for something or someone. They had been thrown wide of her body, but her tiny fingers clutched toward nothingness. Her legs were bent, as if they had shattered the moment the bullet was fired.

Mickey wanted to tear up the paper, to erase the memory. But his eyes noted the photos were placed strategically. Whoever had created this paper had meant it as a threat, clearly intending the viewer to associate the first photo, the cheerful photo, as falling first in time. The second photo was meant to fall second in time, as if this, too, could happen to the bright, smiling child. _Comply or she will meet the same fate_, the photos screamed.

He folded it back up, forcing himself to tear his eyes away. He walked over to where McCall was calmly standing and handed it to him, watching his expression closely. "I found this in Control's pocket, sealed." He saw McCall's calm mask drop and the anger building.

"You say it was sealed?"

"Yeah, in this envelope," he handed McCall the crumpled envelope he had clutched a little too tightly as he had looked at the photos.

"Where at?"

"Left breast pocket. Didn't look like it had been touched."

McCall ran scenarios through his head, but only one matched up. "General Sivincic seems to have connections in high places." Mickey did not ask any questions, seeing the deadly glare reflected in McCall's face.

* * *

A half an hour later, McCall was by the side of his friend, alone in a dim room. McCall's face was weary and downhearted. Control's chest did not rise and fall jaggedly as it had before. His face was pale, devoid of the red blush of life. McCall touched his shoulder, avoiding the hand that was still laced with IV's. But the brush on Control's shoulder was restrained, despondent in its touch. He noticed the ring on his friend's left ring finger, the ring that periodically appeared and disappeared. McCall knew that Control didn't wear it unless he had just gone on a mission under an assumed identity, but he often forgot to take it off after he returned. Its hollow gold band held a lethal dose of cyanide. The ring was symbolic of his marriage to the Company, the most demanding woman in his life, and her lethal ultimatums. She had always been demanding, demanding everything, including the ultimate sacrifice from so many agents.

McCall stood there, quietly, for a long time. At last, knowing he was talking to himself but still feeling that he needed to say it out loud, he said softly, "I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm so sorry. You were right, you were absolutely right about the OSO. It took," he fingered the photos in his hand, "great courage to do what you did." He paused, thinking. "I wasn't angry at you," he said sincerely, "I was angry at myself, angry at the Company, angry at the world. I think you knew that; I hope you knew that." He paused again, his eyes sinking to the floor. "I will do everything in my power to destroy this illegal organization." He looked at Control's ashen face again, his chest burning with emotion.

Dr. Cavowski entered the room quietly, standing grimly to one side. McCall turned toward them, his eyes red and his jaw clenched.

Aca asked quietly. "The body?"

"Burn it," McCall answered, a sense of urgency in his answer. He was already planning his next moves. He was going to find the bastard who had done this, and punishment would be quick and severe.

He strode out to speak with Mickey and Isra. Taking the photos out, he handed them grimly to Isra. "Oh my god," she stared at it. Handing it back, she turned to McCall earnestly, "you'll call Hughes?"

McCall's eyes darted to the young woman's face. "What did you say?"

"Clint Hughes? You'll call him?"

"How do you. . . ," he caught himself, distrustful. "What do you know about Hughes?"

"Whoa," Isra said, tossing up her hands and taking a step back, immediately sensing that McCall mistrusted her, "when I was working security for Control, he had a meeting with . . ." she glanced at the new photo and stopped, "Clint." She could tell McCall had misgivings.

"There's only a handful of people in the world who know about this." McCall glanced at the photos, his voice dangerous.

Isra stared at him with disbelief. "You've _got_ to be kidding me." McCall's face said he wasn't joking. "Look, if I wanted Control dead . . . " she paused, clenching her teeth, ". . . I was the Exodus shooter," her intent was clear – she was a skilled killer and probably had ample opportunities to kill Control the last few months while working his security.

_Well there's that_, McCall thought. Control hadn't been lying about the Exodus mission – but it didn't make it any more believable.

"Anyway, I was Control's choice, not yours." She wanted to punch McCall in the face; instead, she settled for a withering stare.

McCall met the stare with his own, silently evaluating her. Their eyes locked, but McCall finally relented to logic. "I think," he nodded to Mickey and Isra, "we can agree there is a mole in the Company – no one else would have access to this information," he tapped the photo of the dead child.

* * *

McCall watched the flames lick the body. His protective mode of distance had kicked in, and he stared at the fire, separated from his emotions, his body, his feelings, but drawn to the fire. The flames caressed each other, not letting his eyes look away, a release he longed for. Finally, he broke their strangle hold on him, noticing the jacket had almost disappeared with the body. He stared at the pieces still in his hands. After the flames had shriveled into embers, he watched quietly as the ashes were gathered into a canister. He placed the small, unburned pieces of cloth inside as well and then turned away from the canister. He would not carry it back. He watched Isra pick it up, with the deference due to a fallen agent.

* * *

McCall glanced at the carpet, putting down his magazine. They had yet to take off from the Kosovska Mitrovica airport, but they would be leaving at any moment. His fear of heights was overcome by the events of the last few days. They weighed heavily on his mind.

Mickey opened one eye, cocking it at McCall.

"It's a good thing we got the last two seats. We were pretty lucky getting on this flight at all." He paused. "When do you think Isra will get out?"

McCall looked out the window at the light blue sky, clouds scattered on the horizon. "Oh, as soon as possible, I'm sure. Securing transportation may take a while, though." He thought about the canister and continued to stare out the window.

Pulling out the photos, McCall looked at them again. Mickey looked over his shoulder. "Who are they, McCall?"

"This, he tapped the photo of the young corpse, "was his daughter." McCall replied. "Gunmen were looking for him. They killed her right in front of him. It was just before her fourth birthday."

Mickey released his breath, disturbed. "Wow, I didn't know."

"No," McCall responded, "no one does. He doesn't talk about it. Never has. Not to me, not to anyone."

Mickey looked at the girls again. "The resemblance is striking."

"Yes, a reminder of things gone wrong, I suppose." McCall pondered.

McCall handed the envelope back to Mickey. It brought back painful memories of his own little girl who had died, naturally, of cardiomyopathy. Even now, after all these years, it was still unbearably painful to think about. A pain that no parent or guardian ever loses.

"So," Mickey asked slowly, "who would have access to the information?"

"That's the problem. No one should. The people that could or would remember her murder are very few. And since then, he has always been so damned careful – with everything." McCall thought back.

"The Director and the Deputy?"

"And theoretically any other agent that was around back then who had access to the information."

"You." Mickey commented.

"There's a few others."

"We can narrow it down pretty quickly."

"Until you add the other 536 people Control likes to drive into my head."

"536?"

"The House, the Senate, and the President. Unlikely though, they have to have a special warrant to unseal his files."

"Oh." Mickey scanned the envelope's contents once more, folded it carefully, and replaced it inside the envelope. "But still, Control usually covers his tracks so well."

"That's what worries me – it points to someone within the Company. Besides, who outside of the Company would have contacts with a Serbian army general now? Possibly a retired agent would have had contacts with Sivincic years ago, but it just doesn't make any sense."

"McCall, that means whoever had the access not only wanted Control killed, they didn't mind that a man in his position was going to be tortured by the opposition. If General Sivincic actually put this in Control's pocket to 'persuade' Control to talk about US policy objectives or agents, we'd clearly have a mole on our hands. I mean, I can see a lot of Control's enemies at the Company trying to take him out, but . . . and especially if they were Company agents . . . they would not allow him to fall into foreign government's hands for questioning with the kind of info that he has inside his head. It's too sloppy."

"You're right. We've got a very high level mole, Mickey. But who is he working for? Why would they do favors for Serbian military men? They were willing to risk US intelligence information to compromise Control and eventually kill him – hence the bullpen."

"So a mole with a bad attitude toward Control?"

"It certainly looks that way."

"So we are back to the Deputy and the Director."

"The Deputy has been with the Company for thirty years. I just don't see it."

"And the Director is a political appointee," Mickey replied. "He might have access to Control's files, but McCall – he's not that kind of guy. He just wouldn't think of it. Personally, I wouldn't trust him with a nickel, and he isn't all that smart when it comes to Company politics. But, he's just a political hack – he is in for a few years and then out again. Why could he possibly want to take out Control?"

"Well, there you are then," McCall sighed. "Two people, two unknown reasons. We have to find out who it is before they do anymore damage." _And,_ he thought, _there was this OSO business. _He stared at the seat in front of him, his mind three steps ahead, planning. He and Mickey had a handful of things to do on Control's behalf, back in New York, and he had already started the wheels in motion. But this time, he knew that he would have to work quickly and be very, very careful, indeed.


	17. Chapter 17

Isra waited 18 hours until she was confident McCall and Mickey had successfully gotten out of the country and were in route home or on home soil before she cautiously wandered into town to find a payphone. She was loathe to leave the field hospital, the only strangers she could trust, but she knew she had to call the Company. One of the orderlies from the hospital, Nebosja, had volunteered to take her into town. He was Dr. Cavowski's closest student, and he had asked no questions when Aca explained Isra's need to pass through the town without running into Serbian soldiers. As an Iranian-American, she would stick out like a sore thumb, so Nebosja indicated he would take her under his watchful eye to find a safe phone.

Isra stayed close by his side, eyes to the ground, acting like a shy wife or girlfriend. She did not want to risk anyone noticing her miscomprehension of the Serbian language. Nebosja lead her by the hand to an outside phone. She dialed the worldwide toll free number and waited for it to ring.

"Hello?" the operator asked.

Isra leaned in toward the phone booth, muffling her voice from outside onlookers. "I would like to know when the next lifeguard training session is."

The operator paused, "Which session would you like to attend?"

"I've already been certified for the baby and intermediate levels; I need the advanced."

"Are you requesting a specific instructor?"

"Yes, I need the presiding EMT."

"One moment." Isra could hear the transfer signals.

"Hello? Isra? Is that you? What's wrong?" the voice on the other end asked. "Why are you calling from Serbia?"

She tapped on the phone booth's walls lightly. "Um, I . . . I have to call in a loss."

"Who?"

She bit her lip. "Who else would I be calling in for?" She hoped McCall and Kostmayer had remembered to have Nigel backlog her mission in the file.

"Oh, Isra, I saw your recent assignment. I'm sorry. Are you ok?"

She closed her eyes, wiping a palm across her forehead. "I-I guess I have to be, don't I? There's nothing I can do."

"Now, I hate to do this to you, but has it been confirmed?"

"I was there! I'm confirming it!"

Silence on the other end. "Isra, we need the body."

"I've got it."

"Good. I'll send two agents over on the next flight, and they will confirm your ID and bring him home."

"He's . . . it's not a body anymore. He's been cremated."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence on the other end of the phone. "That's all right, it will make it easier to get him back here, faster, no special arrangements needed. Have you got something we can run a DNA check on for our confirmation?"

"Um," she paused, "some of his shirt – it's got his blood on it, it didn't burn all the way."

"Good, that'll do. Listen, I've got your exact position now. Can you come in tomorrow same place, same time? We'll have people at your present location waiting for you. Expect one S&T guy and one Ops guy."

"Yeah, I think so." She was happy for the arrangements to be taken out of her hands.

"Good, just hang tight for 24 hours and we will get you home safe and sound."

_Not likely_, she thought.

* * *

The figure on the other end of the phone gently placed it back on the hook, a smile spreading over his face. _Perfect,_ he thought. _Nothing could be going better. So the bastard had gotten out of Broz's trap. _That phone call had worried him. But everything had worked out. He was dead anyhow, mortally wounded. _Like the rat who eats the poison and tries to crawl back to its hole. And the photos? _That had worried him more. Those were for Control's eyes only. If anyone else had seen them, they could put it together, they might know. _Thank god for the ashes._ _No doubt the information had been destroyed with the body. _He had not planned on that. The pieces were fitting into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Ah, God was smiling on him today. _All the evidence was destroyed, along with the phoenix._ He would question Isra when she came back, just in case. He might still have to kill her. Maybe. But he doubted it, she would not call if she suspected him. _Perfect._

* * *

Isra waited a moment before pressing her shaky fingers to the phone's touchpad again. This was getting to be too much. _The worst is over_, she thought, then corrected herself, _I hope._

She redialed, waiting a minute or two for the phone to pick up. The answering machine beep. "Hi, it's Isra. I'm calling in for my daily checkup. I told the Company . . ." she heard the phone pickup.

"Hello?"

Isra heard a new voice, but she was not sure who had picked up. She had dialed McCall's number, she thought, but the line interference was not helping her confirm who she thought it was. She decided to be on the safe side. "Robert?"

"No, this is Mickey, Isra. Are you ok?"

"I was going to ask you guys the same thing."

"We got in all right. Now comes the fun part," he said.

"Yeah, frankly I'd rather be on the other end, doing something. The waiting – it's hard. Thanks for calling Nigel to backlog my reassignment off the security detail. It came in handy already."

"Yea, Nigel was surprisingly compliant with the request. How is everything over there?"

She let out a sigh of relief. "I guess . . . I guess it is going as well as can be expected."

"McCall is pretty worried. He's really shaken up, I've never seen him like this. Can you call back later? I think he wants to talk to you."

"No, it's risky trying to call in. I have to travel to the nearest village to use their phone. And I probably can't do that for long before someone finds out."

Mickey frowned. "Did you say you called it in?"

"Yeah."

"They coming to get you?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, really, are you O.K.?"

"I'm a professional."

"I know. Hey – they give you a hard time, and I'll break their necks. Now listen, remember, you can't go with them. We're about to turn up the heat, and McCall doesn't want you here until it cools down a little. We have a safe house ready, but you're better off there."

"As if I'd leave. This is probably better than a safe house, anyway."

"I told McCall you wouldn't leave without a fight."

"I gotta go."

"All right. You take care of yourself O.K.? And keep your head down."

"You too."

The phones clicked off simultaneously.

* * *

Isra turned back toward Nebosja. "Ok, I'm ready." They turned and got back into the jeep. She checked her watch, hoping they could get back as soon as possible.

"Home?" Nebosja asked. Isra nodded quickly, hoping they could return to the house quickly. Aca had made all the arrangements after he had heard the full story – as much as she dared tell him. He had offered his home, everything he had until it was safe. Isra had thanked him solemnly. Nebosja lived in the same house, an obedient student wishing to absorb all the master could teach. They were good friends, too. Each had a mutual respect for the other, each changed by the war.

Nebosja had offered her his bed, but she usually preferred the floor in the basement. Nebosja had insisted, concerned about her lack of sleep. She thanked him, but most nights, she still preferred the basement floor. She ended up spending most of her time with Aca's wife, Habibah, downstairs, anyhow. Habibah was from Zanzibar, and Aca had married her while working there.

Isra never saw Habibah sleep. Even when Isra would awake in the middle of the night and her own eyes were tired with fatigue, Habibah would be awake, smiling sadly at her. Her face was one of compassion, of one that understood all the sorrow in the world, more than one person should know. But even with the knowing, her face betrayed total happiness and ease in the world. The lines in her young face had touched Isra, for she could be no older than Isra. Her soft, silent attitude comforted Isra, when nothing else could. When she finally tired enough, she would wander upstairs for an hour or two of sleep, but it was always fitful and short.

She told Aca about the strange effect Habibah had on her.

"Yes, she has that effect on everyone. Her name means "Beloved," and she is. Everywhere she goes, she has a calming effect upon people. She is a healer, a mganga wa shetani. She uses magic to heal the soul, to keep the spirits at bay. But she hasn't practiced since we moved here from Zanzibar."

"So you are both doctors?"

"No, not the same. I heal the body's ailments. She heals the wounds of the soul. She works exclusively with the spirits."

"Why hasn't she practiced her medicine since Zanzibar?"

"She says the spirits here overpower her. There are too many, and she is too weak to take them on. She said she must, one day, but that day has yet to come." Isra filed this information away. Perhaps that was why Habibah seemed so at peace with herself – she could control her demons and the demons of others. It was an interesting notion. Isra pondered it for a minute and then dismissed it, wondering if the people here would ever accept the magic of a Zanzibari shaman.

* * *

Isra woke early the next morning, her sleep erratic and unhappy. Nebosja had finally convinced her to use the bed. When she awoke, she immediately went downstairs. Aca was already there. "That's all we can do for now," he calmly stated, as if to himself. "We will look at this again later, but I must go to the hospital now." His fingers twisted dirty cloth, cleaning the residue on his hands. And what hands he had. Isra never saw his fingers dormant; they moved all the time as if they had to do something, anything to pass the time. Not one instant did his fingers slow. If they were not helping a patient, they were molding, sculpting, cleaning, doing anything except resting. He began to clean up the room, walking to the dark corner where a half-sculpted object stood in the corner. He gathered up the wood shavings he had created in the night.

Isra looked at the object, a carefully whittled image emerging out of the wood block Aca had found near the hospital. The nose and delicate ears sloped softly back into a strong chest. Her deep, moist brown eyes danced out of the wood from which they were made. It was an Arabian mare, her delicate facial features already carved, but only her shoulders protruded from the wood. Isra looked into the eyes of the tiny sculpture that proudly stared across the room, her expression one of dignity and guardianship.

"How come you chose to do this piece?" Isra asked as Aca scraped the wood slivers into the garbage along with the room's other trash.

"She is my way of seeking baraka."

"What is that?"

"Are you not a Muslim?"

Isra shrugged, "In name only."

"Baraka is divine knowledge, divine holiness. It is the search for Allah's blessing. I cannot explain exactly what it is, my wife would be better equipped to tell you about it."

"I may take that up with her. Is she up yet?"

"Yes, she is upstairs. She will be down soon."

Isra gazed at the wise eyes staring back at her, gently touching the wood's surface as if it were real. The dark wood only enhanced the sculpture's reality, making it look like as if the mare was a dark bay, her forelock hanging far over her eyes, brushed aside by the wind. "She is so beautiful. But how will she help you find baraka?"

"Baraka is found in Allah's word, in the Prophet's word, in anything said or done in praise of Allah or the Prophet. The Prophet said that Arabians were made from the searing South wind, El Kumait. I saw them on my Haj and fell in love with their beauty. She," he gestured to the sculpture, "is my link to that wind, to the homeland of the Prophet, to Mecca. The Prophet calls horses El-Kheir, the supreme blessing. From that simple expression, the expounders of the Sourate decided Muslims should love the horse as themselves, above themselves, to the extent of taking food from their children's mouths to feed their horses." He smiled, the shadow of a smile that was the only smile Aca ever allowed to pierce his solemn face. "My wife will have a child in six months. That is her," he gestured again at the sculpture, "other function, for the Prophet said that 'an evil spirit cannot enter a tent where a pure-bred horse is kept.' And that is what she is, a daughter of the dessert. So she will be the pure-bred Arabian in my tent, the keeper of good in a place where good has vanished. She will keep the evil spirits away so that my child will arrive, safely." He stared out the tiny slits for windows that allowed a morning haze into the basement. "I have been trying to dye the wood the proper color. You see, she is to be of the koummite color, the strongest and swiftest of all colors, according to the Prophet. She is a dark bay except when the light is directly on her, she shines of the red fury of the sun. But," he stopped, "how did you know it was a mare?"

A confused expression crossed Isra's face. "I don't know. It was – it was her eyes. They are alluring, like a woman's, and strong. Why did you choose to do a mare instead of a stallion?"

"Stallions are reputed to be strong and handsome, but it is the mares whom the Arabs used for war. When caravans crossed the dessert, if a mare should foal a colt, the colt might be left to die in the heat of the sun because of the lack of water on the caravan's journey. But if the foal was a filly, she would be cared for as if she was the Sheik's only son. Only mares were used for war. Without them, a warrior could not travel, could not fight. In fact, there is a famous story of a certain clan who rode out one day and fought for many hours. When they came home, they turned their mares loose so they could refresh themselves at the trough. They were tired and thirsty after a long day's ride, without food or water. But before the mares could reach the trough, the signal was given that the enemy was attacking. The men called to their horses, and only five mares turned to heed their master's call before drinking the water. These mares were celebrated as the greatest Arabians ever, true to their duty even in their dry thirst. Their offspring, even today, are considered prized possessions."

"It's so beautiful. If you sold it, you could get the price of a professional sculptor's piece."

Aca breathed a large sigh. "No, I follow the Arab tradition. An Arab will not, cannot, sell his horses, for they are members of his family."

"Then how does the blood mix?"

"Horses can be won in tests of strength and endurance, or they can be given as gifts – but never sold."

"She is truly beautiful."

"I thank you, Isra Nasari," he bowed slightly. "Perhaps her duties of watching over those who need her help will start today," he looked at her for a moment. "I must return to the hospital, I will be back soon." He glanced around the room. "Everything is fine, for now; and I will return home as soon as I am able. Remember, sleep is the key to recovery – be it of the body or the soul," he thumped his heart and looked at her with the air of wisdom. Isra thought of her own fitful sleeping. He was right, sleep was necessary to a well-functioning body. "Please be careful today and know that you may stay here as long as you wish, under my protection."

The thought now occurred to Isra that Aca's devotion to his traditional religion would not allow him to say no to a stranger asking for a bed and warm meal. Had he felt that there was danger to himself and his family, he would have accepted it without another thought – which meant she needed to look out for him as much as he was looking out for her. "Thank you, Aca, you have been most kind." She watched his retreating figure for a moment, before pondering the day's activities. She spent the rest of the day sitting quietly, now and then exchanging a word with Habibah.

Nebosja silently slipped into the room, concerned about his chargé. "Isra, it is almost time to go," he told her quietly, his head bowed like that of his instructor's. Isra nodded, realizing the meeting time was almost upon her. She took one last look around the room, hoping she would see it again before nightfall. The mare's eyes assured her that everything would be all right, under her watchful gaze. Isra was worried, for she did not want to lead Sivincic's troops or the Company's agents to the home of her protector. She found the canister and turned to Nebosja. "I am ready."

Sensing her anxiety, Habibah touched her shoulder, reassuring her. "Do not worry, everything here will be fine. You must place your mind on the matter at hand."

Isra nodded, taking a deep breath and releasing her anxiousness. Nebosja led her toward the jeep, watching her. Already, he followed her silently like a bodyguard or an angel. His silent demeanor, in the manner of his teacher, struck her as calming and protective. His large brown eyes followed her whenever she was in the room, and somehow his presence comforted her and worried her at the same time. He silently followed her, but she also felt as if he was a puppy – needing something she could not give. He was young, only a few years younger than Aca. He had quickly picked up the silent feeling in Aca's family, or perhaps he had been drawn to them by something he saw in himself.

They drove in silence toward the town, and he dropped Isra off a few blocks from the corner, parking nearby so that he could see the telephone booth. Isra jumped out with the canister, careful to walk around the block to make sure that she was not followed. When she was satisfied no one in particular was watching her wandering gait, she made her way to the booth. She set the canister down by her side and glanced at her watch. She was right on time, and there were no agents to be seen. The telephone rang, and she rolled her eyes. _So cliché,_ she thought. _These must be babies in the business._ She picked up the phone and listened.

"Isra, stay right there. We'll be there in 5."

A few minutes later, two figures turned the corner. They were both dressed well, too well to be locals. She had changed at Aca's house as soon as she got there, fearing someone might know she was a foreigner. The two figures stopped in front of the booth, and she leaned against the glass.

"Isra? I'm Matt Wilson and this is Colin Tevis."

"Hi," she mumbled at them.

"Let's go somewhere we can talk."

Isra nodded, walking with them and giving a hidden thumbs up signal down by her thigh at Nebosja in the waiting jeep.

"We've got a room in a local hotel, we can talk there."

A few minutes later, Isra was in their hotel room, still clutching the canister. She threw her jacket over the chair and sat down.

Wilson sat down opposite her, running a hand through his black hair. "We already have a pretty good idea of what happened, but we need to go over it again for the report."

Isra nodded, telling the story of what had happened and ending with Control's death on the operating table, but she left out the existence of the copied photos in his pocket. Colin stepped in, asking if the canister was his remains. She nodded expressionlessly. Colin picked it up and walked to another part of the room where he had stored his gear. He opened the canister, and saw tiny pieces of cloth.

"Isra," he asked, "was this part of the shirt Control was wearing?" She nodded slowly.

"Alright, I'm gonna do a blood check on it now. That should give us a pretty good ID along with your story."

While Colin was working over the scraps of shirt, Matt continued to debrief her, going over the story with Isra once, twice, three times. Finally, Matt leaned back. "Ok, Isra. That's it. I have enough for my report, and you will probably want to submit your own. My official report is going to say KIA."

Isra nodded again. Colin walked over, taking his glasses off. His bald head shined against the hotels florescent lights. "Yep, it's official on this end too. Type O negative – not a lot of chance that it was anyone else, due to its rarity. A DNA check will pretty much confirm it; I'm going to go ahead and send a sample in. Results should be back pretty soon, depending on their backlog. Anyway, your part is pretty much over, Isra. Sorry this had to happen – but it happens, you know?"

Isra nodded, thinking, _no, it doesn't just happen._ She hoped McCall and Mickey were making some headway at home.

"We've got a private CAT transport out of here at 8:00 tonight. You can hang out here until we go," Wilson stretched.

Isra stood up, smiling politely. "Guys, I need to use the ladies room. Will you excuse me?"

Matt saw her head toward the door, leaving her jacket behind. "Yeah, sure." The nearest bathroom was down at the end of the hall. If she was planning on talking a walk, she would at least need her jacket for the nippy air outside. Twenty minutes later, he glanced at his watch and grabbed Colin. "Hey, Isra hasn't returned yet. Let's check around the hotel." They ran downstairs, and Matt grabbed the desk clerk by the lapel. "Did you see a young woman with dark hair walk out of here?" he said in flawless Serbian.

"Da," the man replied, indicating she had walked out about twenty minutes ago.

"Damn it!" Matt swore. "And we have no idea where she went. Well, it looks like we submit the report, wait for guidance, and open up surveillance on the payphone until she comes back."

Colin shrugged, this wasn't his line of work. He was merely there for the samples. He would probably be on the CAT transport tonight, since someone needed to take the canister back.

Matt shook his head. _So many good agents lost it after one little incident. This might be hers. _When they got back to the room, he stared at the jacket a moment before he put a note about the incident on the top of the file and shrugged at Colin_. There was no reason to take her back, really. It would have been more convenient for her. Well, oh well. That's the way the ball rolled._ He looked at Colin who made a sucking sound as he cleaned his teeth with his tongue. Matt gave him a look and filed the papers in front of him. _She'd be back. The Company would see to that. But for now, they'd let her go._ After the report was sent in, someone up top would make a decision as to what would happen.

* * *

Isra returned to the jeep with Nabosja, checking the mirrors more than a few times as they drove home, but she saw no one following him. Just to be certain, she had him drive in an arc around the town. When she was satisfied, she returned to Aca's house, relieved to be returning to its comforting embrace.

Habibah was standing outside to welcome Isra home, her eyes soft and knowing. And Isra knew everything would be all right, in time.


	18. Chapter 18

Mickey hung the phone up, thinking about Isra. He padded over to McCall's couch, throwing himself on it. McCall hadn't gotten back yet – and it might be awhile before he returned. McCall had gone out for a while. Mickey flipped through a magazine for a minute, then threw it back down. He usually did not fret like this, but he was concerned this time. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing on it like a frenzied lion. His eyes instinctively scanned McCall's apartment, trying to find something to calm him down. He looked at his watch. It might be awhile, so he threw on some old clothes and decided to go jogging.

He started to run through the familiar neighborhoods around McCall's apartment. But soon, he was running faster, wildly faster. He didn't want to think; in fact, he wanted the comfort of no thought – of not dealing with the grim realities of life . . . and death. He hadn't felt like this since he found out John, his best friend, had died. It wasn't so much the question of death as that of a trap slowly tightening around him that gripped him as his feet pounded hard against the pavement. He ran on, his lungs begging for breath, his mind uncaring. His calves strained with effort, and sweat formed on his brow, dribbling down his temples until he could taste his own sweat on his lips. But still, he ran on. His teeth ground into one another, as he continued to run.

Finally, he slumped to the ground, leaning on a telephone pole. He wiped his dripping hair out of his eyes as his lungs heaved with relief. His muscles were spent, and he realized he had no idea where in New York he was – not that he really cared. He pulled himself to his feet, clinging to a telephone poll for support. Finally, he began to walk home, slowly, with a meandering step. He had run virtually in a straight line, so he only needed to walk back the way he came to run into familiar territory.

He arrived at McCall's, his face and clothing still wet from the exertion. Already his muscles felt stronger and renewed energy surged back through his body, but his mind was spent. Maybe they shouldn't have left Kosovo.

* * *

McCall pulled up to a residential curb after driving around the city, going nowhere in particular, just a trip to clear his mind. He parked the Jaguar and turned off the engine. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He adjusted his black gloves, sinking into the Jaguar's comfortable leather.

McCall's mind kept returning to Serbia, but he desperately needed to focus on the matter at hand. He closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. But just as he opened them, he slammed his hands down on the steering wheel with all his power.

"Damn you, Control." He turned the key and drove home.

* * *

McCall stalked up the steps to his apartment, trying to gather his emotions. He fumbled with the key, pounding on the door when he found he couldn't open it soon enough. "Easy, geez," Mickey opened the door after having just finished his jog, somewhat confused by McCall's anger – and at the same time, understanding it. Mickey's hair was still wet from his shower. He had already changed into the spare set of clothes he left at McCall's house for just such occasions. He had pulled on an old pair of jeans and a long sleeve black t-shirt.

Mickey stood there silently watching as McCall strode into the room, throwing his coat over the off-white couch, not bothering to hang it up. A small act, but very unlike McCall. _This was definitely affecting him,_ Mickey thought. The last few days had been an emotional rollercoaster that no one should be put through. McCall's constant advice, _put the personal issues behind you. They have no place on the job. They will affect your mind and your work. Put them away or everyone pays._ Mickey felt he should give McCall his own advice now, but somehow he could not bring himself to say it.

Just then, the phone rang. "Mickey," McCall jerked his head toward the phone. "Will you stop that infernal ringing, please?" His temper was a short fuse, ready to go off at any moment.

"Hello?" Mickey caught the phone on the third ring. He listened for a moment and then held the phone out to McCall.

"I don't want to talk to anyone, Mickey!" he roared.

"McCall, I think you should take it," he covered up the mouthpiece. "It's Kay."

McCall stopped dead in his tracks. His ex-wife was calling. She very rarely rang him. He pushed his feelings deep down, trying to brace himself. What if something had happened to Scott? What if . . . what if . . . .

"Kay?"

"Hello, Robert."

"Has something happened with Scott?"

"Yes, it has." McCall's heart skipped a beat.

"What?" he asked frantically.

"Tina has broken off the wedding."

McCall threw his head back, looking up at the ceiling. Mickey watched this display, leaning against the couch. This could not be good.

"Well, where is he?"

"He is still in Arizona, and he wants you to come down. He needs his father."

McCall stood there, dumbfounded for a moment. "Kay, I can't. I am in the middle of something. I wish I could but . . ."

"Oh Robert, this is so like you. What could be more important than your son? Do you want to destroy the relationship it has taken you so long to build? This is the behavior that damaged it in the first place! What could possibly, _possibly_ be more important than Scott right now? What?"

McCall clenched the phone tighter. Kay was right. If he did not go to Scott now, the hard-earned faith he had been working toward for so long could be destroyed in one momentary lapse.

"I need some time to think about it, Kay." McCall tried to sort his feelings, but he failed miserably; and they all tumbled down on him.

"You do that, Robert. You think long and hard." Click.

Mickey waited a moment, but the look on McCall's face rattled him. "What's wrong now?"

"It's Scott. His fiancé has called off the wedding."

Mickey shrugged. This was not in his area of expertise. "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do? I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, if I don't go – I could drive a wedge between us – and it has taken me so long to gain his trust. On the other hand, we are working on a time sensitive explosion within the Company – not to mention what I owe to Control."

It was definitely a tough call. Mickey couldn't help but think he would go with the Company option, given the circumstances. But this was up to McCall. Mickey knew how much Scott meant to McCall and how much McCall tormented himself over conversations gone wrong, opportunities missed, tense encounters.

"When it rains, it pours," Mickey added softly.

_What will I do? What choice do I have?_ McCall repeated, over and over in his mind. Mickey looked at him, like a second son, with questioning eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

A knock interrupted their pondering. Mickey raised his eyebrows at McCall and checked the keyhole before opening the door.

"Hey, Jimmy," Mickey let in the other Company agent.

Jimmy looked at Mickey and nodded. Upon seeing McCall, he got down to business. "McCall, I found something interesting," Jimmy's Long Island accent grew a little thicker.

"Well, what is it?" McCall's answered irritatedly.

"I heard you guys were back in town, and you asked me to check around concerning those e-mails to the NSA. Nothing. No one knows anything about them."

"That's all right, Jimmy, we found out what was in them anyhow."

"Yeah?" Jimmy asked with questioning eyes.

Mickey shook his head slowly at Jimmy. Now would _not_ be a good time to ask what happened. Jimmy saw it and returned a knowing glance.

"How did you find out we were back?" Mickey tensed. "I haven't reported in yet."

"The word was around that you guys were back."

McCall's eyes narrowed. Maybe a trip to Scott's would throw suspicion off their real intentions. If the mole was watching them for a response and Isra was not reporting in, the last thing he should do is be seen digging around for answers. Mickey, on the other hand, could figure out what was going on without a whole lot of suspicion. Mickey was, after all, still a Company agent. And, it would solve both his problems with one stone – but he hated to leave, his hands-on contact cut off.

"Jimmy, what did you find? I doubt that our presence is interesting enough to tell us about."

"Yeah, well, today two Company agents were knocked off – or were found knocked off anyway. They were guarding a safe house – a black safe house." McCall looked sharply at Jimmy's words. A black safe house was one that was not listed in the Company's files. This one, however, had been guarded by two agents which meant it was sponsored by someone high in the Company. "And," Jimmy continued, "one of the agents who was killed, I happen to know quite well. At the New Year's Eve party, all he would say about his present assignment was that he was working on a special project for Control. Draw your own conclusions."

McCall bit the end of his glasses, thinking through the possibilities. Obviously, this was one of Control's projects. And someone, possibly the mole, had taken the first chance possible to get whatever was inside the safe house. Which meant, if indeed it was the mole who had ordered the hit, that whatever was inside the safe house would have to do with the mole. "Jimmy, what was found inside?"

"Couldn't say, McCall. They are still cleaning up there, I couldn't get any more out of the guys working the detail than that. They are keeping pretty tight lipped about the whole thing, you know, especially after what happened."

McCall nodded to Jimmy, thanking him for the information. "Mickey," he glanced at the younger man next to him, "let's go."

* * *

The Jaguar parked a block from the building where the murders had happened in Queens. McCall got out and slammed his door, walking slowly toward the police line. The officers on duty knew him well, from various run-ins with the famous Equalizer. Often, McCall would rely on the help of the police in his work to "equalize" the odds for people in dire straits. One new cop put up his hand, ready to stop the intruding onlooker, but a quiet word from one of his colleagues allowed McCall and Kostmayer through the police barricade. McCall noticed two recognizable Company agents, and there were undoubtedly more he was unfamiliar with. The activities of the police were winding down after sweeping the place clean for clues, but it appeared there were very few clues.

McCall saw an old chum in charge of the investigation and waved him over. "Lt. Burnett," McCall called out.

"Oh, McCall, don't tell me you have a hand in this too? I've got more people breathing down my back about this investigation . . ." the detective sighed.

"Yes, well, normally Company operations are such that Company officers don't get killed on our own soil, you know." McCall leaned a little closer to the detective.

"No special favors on this one, McCall. If I misplace one hair of evidence, I'll get it from all ends."

"No, no, of course not. But one thing," McCall stopped the retreating detective, "have you so much as a hair of evidence?"

The detective rolled his eyes and groaned, pulling McCall and Mickey out of earshot from any other individuals standing close by.

"Look, I have very little to go on right now. You want to know the score? I've got what these guys," he waved to the Company agents nearby, "tell me is a normal safe house setup. In my opinion, someone has been living there for a couple weeks. The place was searched thoroughly, but not disorderly. All I got out of place is a few rubber gloves – cleanup measures that we happened to find in the trash can down the block."

"They were rubber?" McCall's rubbed his jaw. "Did you get fingerprints off the insides?"

"Naw, our killers were too smart for that. What we did find was surgical glove residue – the killer was wearing two pairs of gloves. The only weird thing about the whole thing is the same type of wax was all over the bulb of a lamp inside."

Mickey nodded, "When you've got an emergency job with cleanup – rubber gloves will do it.

"Yes, semi-professional," McCall scoffed at the thought of leaving gloves so close to the crime scene.

"Ah, yeah, guys – I'm a cop, I can't be hearing stuff like how to plan a perfect murder, O.K.? I've got work to do. If you can take your pals over there," he waved at the bored Company officers again, "please do."

McCall and Mickey watched the retreating officer for a moment before crossing the Police line again. "Well, that was a dead end," Mickey scratched his head.

McCall was still thinking about the wax. "You know Mickey, I'll bet our killer was wearing two pairs of gloves with wax tips underneath them. And, feeling like he . . . or she . . . had as much time in the world, the killer decided to burn those wax tips from their fingers right there."

"Emergency job - hot wax on the fingertips to keep nasty fingerprints out of the way – that was lesson 102 at the Farm."

"Right. But I doubt our killer is the mole – if there is a connection to the mole here. It was probably a hired underling, unless our mole is getting so cocky as to commit murders himself. But if he is getting cocky, it will be ever so much easier to catch him." McCall unlocked the door of the Jaguar. "The place was searched," he said, thinking out loud. "Thoroughly, but not disorganized. Very professional."

"Then maybe they didn't find what they were looking for," Mickey said quietly.

A smile began to border on the side of McCall's mouth. He motioned at Mickey. "Mickey," he handed over the keys to the Jag, "I think those Company officers that saw us at the crime scene are going to run straight back to HQ and tell everyone that we were there. I'm going to pack for Scott's for a few days – that should buy us a little of the mole's confidence that we haven't discovered anything of importance. What I need you to do is drop me off at home and then drive over to Control's, find the book Paradise Lost in his study, and bring it back over as soon as you can."

* * *

A half hour later, Kostmayer had returned, book in hand. He had already noticed the list of addresses tucked safely into the back cover, written in Control's careful handwriting. "Here it is, McCall," he turned the book over to Robert, "are they addresses of safe houses?" He looked around, noticing Jimmy had gone home.

"No," McCall returned. He put his glasses on, taking a pencil and scanning over the list briefly. The first address was 241 South Margolia Street. McCall crossed out the first address, looking at the next one. He circled the second number of the second address followed by the fourth number of the third address and then the first number of the fourth address. He scanned down further, taking the second street after the fourth address. He did not continue, knowing he did need the rest of the address. He handed it over to Mickey, writing the new address at the bottom.

"493 Shirald Lane?" Mickey glanced at McCall. "You sure?"

"It is a secondary safe house in case something goes wrong. If the person in the safe house today was able to get away today, he should have gone to this address."

"Good, I'll check it out while you finish packing." Mickey dangled the Jag's keys in front of McCall, indicating he would not give them back until after McCall had packed.

"Mickey!" McCall glared at Kostmayer. "Just because I've already said I'm leaving doesn't mean I'm not going to do everything in my power to close the book on the mole!"

"McCall!" Mickey cut in, "So far everything is fine – but the mole will be watching you most of all. If we upset the balance too much, we risk the mole taking action – and that is the most disastrous action of all. Now – I'm going to go find this address. When I get back, I can take you straight to the airport."

McCall's eyes shot out a warning glare in Mickey's direction. McCall knew he was right, but this had not been an easy week nor was he used to doing things on other people's terms. "Fine," he said, but his tone told Mickey he was not happy about it.

Mickey grabbed his army coat on the way out, practically running down to the Jag. He would have preferred his new truck – the newest vehicle to carry his sporting equipment . . . including a deep storage bin with all sorts of goodies tucked inside under a false floor – but it was in the shop. He sighed. The Jag would just have to do.

Mickey drove to the address, seeing an old blue Maverick pull out from a parking spot in front of the old, shabby building just as he was pulling around the corner. Mickey instantly changed his planned course of action. He fell in a comfortable four blocks behind the Maverick, careful not to fall too far behind to lose it. He knew he had to be extra careful – the cars he usually drove were unassuming vehicles, unnoticeable. This one, however, screamed "Here I am!" Mickey shook his head to himself.

Mickey and McCall shared a great deal of things – ideals, a common bond through the Company, a military background, etc. But McCall was from the old school: suits, ties, money. Kostmayer was from a middle class family. His modest looks and calm attitude gave others a false sense of security. He was quiet, shy almost, but forceful when force needed to be used.

A policeman rolled by, glancing warily at Kostmayer. Mickey sunk a little lower in the car, smoothing his hair back. Mickey knew he looked out of place in the Jag. His sneakers and worn jeans would not impress the officer if he was stopped.

The sky blue Maverick in front of him suddenly veered wildly around the corner, and Mickey knew he had been discovered. After five turns, the driver had finally caught on – but there was not a second operative to take up the chase and throw suspicion off Mickey. "Damn," he muttered under his breath as he stepped on the gas. He turned his wheel sharply, expecting the other car to have already disappeared out of sight around the corner. His eyes widened in surprise and sudden terror when he noticed the car had unexpectedly stopped in the middle of the street.


	20. Chapter 20

"Shit!" Kostmayer slammed on his brakes, twisting the steering wheel to turn the Jag. But the Jag would not respond as quickly as Mickey would have liked. He slammed dead into the front of the Maverick, twisting the Maverick's sky blue hood into a crunched mass of shiny metal. The Jag's own front end was completely totaled, and Mickey was thrown forward and back in a whiplash action. He was stunned for a moment, but he was all right other than a dribble of blood following the same lines as his sweat earlier in the day. He reached under the seat, in a slit under the carpet, his fingers searching for the pistol McCall kept there. Finally, they grasped the tip of the pistol and he pulled it out carefully, scanning the car's windows for the unknown driver of the Maverick.

He grasped the car handle lightly, trying to push the door open but finding that it would not budge. A shot rang out, shattering the glass behind him. Instinctively, he ducked as he saw splinters flying from the dashboard. Mickey slid over to the other door in an instant. He pushed it open as he slipped out, hands first, into the street. His shoulder followed his hands, letting him roll into a squatting position, low to the ground with his .44 at the ready.

"Drop it," Mickey growled, his finger itching on the trigger. A salt-and-pepper haired man with a stout figure and red complexion took one look at Mickey and slowly placed his gun on the ground. He returned to a standing position, waiting patiently as Mickey carefully approached.

"Turn around," Mickey said gruffly, annoyed at the man's idiotic actions. How was he going to explain to McCall that he had totaled the Jag? The man turned, letting Mickey search him for weapons. As Mickey patted his pockets, the man brought his elbow down hard on Mickey's head, fleeing as fast as he could. The man did not look back to see if his captor was pursuing but ran, dodging from right to left to avoid possible bullets.

Mickey felt the burn of a blow and fell back onto haunches, stunned. Quickly, he recovered and found his prey's figure retreating in the distance. He ran after the man, aware he had an advantage in age and fitness. He tucked the .44 into the waistband of his pants. His breathing came quickly, but his lungs pushed back as if rejuvenated by his run earlier in the day. Three blocks later, Mickey had virtually closed the distance between the man and himself. Gathering his muscles in one final attack, he launched himself into a flying tackle, toppling the man with a strike to a torso. They rolled to the ground, and Mickey pulled out his gun again, leveling it at the man.

"Give it up. Now . . ." he turned the man over, intending to ask the man who he was, but the man interrupted him.

The man's face had grown an unnatural purple, obviously exhausted by the exertion. The man closed his eyes, saying, "Just get it over with." His slight German accent perked Mickey's interest.

"Get what over with?"

"Were you not sent by Vitali?"

"Vitali?"

The man's eyes widened. "You were not sent by Vitali? On whose behalf did you come?"

"I might ask you the same thing. Besides, I have the gun." Mickey wagged the gun in front of the man.

"You found the safe house. I thought . . . I thought I could leave before anyone found me there."

"You were staying there!" Mickey uncocked the gun, but kept it securely in his hand, just in case.

"Yes," the man replied. "I was given the address by a . . . friend."

"Control?"

The man looked at Mickey, trying to read his thoughts, but finally, the man decided Mickey must be an ally. If Mickey was a foe, Mickey could have easily killed him already. The man nodded slowly.

Mickey let the nozzle of his gun drop, sensing the man's truthfulness. The man looked up, relieved. The past few days had been a nightmare. "Are you from the Company?"

"Yeah, I'm an associate of Control's."

"But . . . he was cancelled."

Mickey looked sharply at the man. Obviously the man had been around the intelligence game. The man continued, "That's why the hit came at the first safe house. If they could find that address, they could find the second address too, right? I . . . I thought you were one of them."

"One of who? Did you see them?"

"No, I was able to get out in time – but I didn't see anyone. But it must have been the American mole."

Mickey looked around quickly at the buzzword. "Come on, we need to get to a little more safety than the middle of the street." He groaned, seeing the Jag's twisted metal in the distance. Mickey pulled out a small cell he carried for emergencies. He dialed the operator who put him through to a cab company. Within fifteen minutes, they were on their way back to McCall's house.

Mickey led the man, approximately his own age, but whose hair had grayed far earlier than Mickey's dark brown hair, into McCall's apartment. McCall was distracted by the entrance of the visitor to ask Mickey about the cab's arrival until he saw Mickey's guilty look. McCall knew Mickey too well to let this go. "Mickey, what happened? Where is my car? And who is this man?"

"Um . . . the good news is, we found the contact who was hiding in the safe house sponsored by Control."

McCall glanced at the visitor. "And what is the bad news?"

"Uh . . ."

"Mickey!" McCall's eyes narrowed at his younger assistant.

"The Jag had an accident. Sorry, McCall." The younger man looked down, brushing his hair back into place.

McCall internalized the news, wincing only inwardly. He turned to the newcomer. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" the man echoed.

"Come on, come on." McCall narrowed his eyes. "I don't have all day. What the hell is this?"

Mickey motioned at the man with his head. "You might want to tell him what you told me."

"O.K.," the man answered. "I am Traugott Kasimir Bräuchle, III." The man said it with an air of importance.

"And . . . ?" McCall asked impatiently.

"I gave certain information to Control in return for safe harbor. He has failed to provide that."

McCall shook his head. "This is it! All right? I am taking over for Control in that area. We are your safe harbor now, so it would be in your best interests to tell us what you told Control or we can't very well protect you, now can we?"

The man looked from McCall to Mickey suspiciously, warily. He seemed indecisive for a moment but finally reported, "I am an ex-Stasi agent."

McCall slumped into the nearest chair. What the hell was Control doing? "All right, I am all ears. What is this all about?"

Bräuchle seated himself on the couch, closely watched over by McCall while Mickey pulled the shades in case of surveillance or shooters. "I worked for the Stasi out of East Berlin as an agent provocateur. Often, I would travel across to West Germany to stir up movements by you Americans or other democracies – movements, mind you, that were purposely undemocratic or that would undermine the faith of the East Germans in their neighbors to the West. After I graduated from such jobs, I helped coordinate with KGB operatives to set up joint ventures between our governments. Then the wall came down and I was without a job anymore, but I still had many contacts with the KGB. Through those contacts, I was given many jobs with KGB officials. One had me run a special job until recently. I was a courier agent between a little villa outside of Moscow to Washington, DC. I had no idea what these envelopes contained or what information I was passing – my life depended on my not knowing . . . and if they would ever catch me, I would be executed. All I really know about the operation is that it is made up of ex-agents. Ex-Stasi agents were recruited from Germany, men and women from Poland, from Czechoslovakia, from the former Soviet Union. Mind you, it is not large, there are many such organizations carrying out matters on a private basis – privatizing the industry, you see. Our services are just as helpful in the business world as they are in the political arena.

"One day, perhaps a month ago, a United States Company agent came to see me. Apparently, he knew that I had been couriering messages – how or why I do not know. I can only say that someone was tipped off at the dead drop and that he was able to follow me back. I agreed to meet with his director. This man, he told me, would have the answers I sought. That man is the man whom you call Control. Anyway, I did meet with him, after a few weeks when it was safe for me to get away again – this would have been a few weeks ago. For my cooperation in identifying what I knew about the traffic, I was promised a life of safety – from the people in Germany who might want revenge for the days long past when I worked for the Stasi and for Vitali Zholtok. Vitali was my point of contact for the errands."

"And what else did you discuss with Control?"

"He asked what I did not know – who I was delivering these messages to. I still do not know. All I know is that Vitali had a contact who was, I think, ex-KGB as well. A contact very high up in your government. But I was simply the courier agent. That was as much as I could tell Control and as much as I can tell you."

McCall walked to his kitchen, making a quick cup of tea and returned with another one for his new guest.

Bräuchle sipped his tea carefully, his mind semi-relived at finding someone else associated with the Company who might be able to protect him. McCall set his tea down, untouched. "Do you have any idea how the agent who initially contacted you got in touch with Control?"

"No," Bräuchle shifted a little bit uneasily.

McCall rubbed his ear, thinking back to his conversation with Control in the jail cell. He laughed, the curls of a smile forming on his face, but his eyes were deadly serious. "The man to whom you delivered the messages – whoever picked them up – I mean, assuming it was a man that picked them up – you don't know how long he has been associated with Zholtok?"

"I was only drawn into their ring about two years ago. Before that, I have no idea."

McCall stared at the ceiling. Damn. If the man had been a longtime KGB contact, it would almost have to be Masada. If it was only short term, they could not narrow the case between Adams and Masada. "Do you know of any other way Zholtok contacted the mole? Or could?"

Bräuchle shrugged. "He has a personal communications array in his private office at his home."

"And you know where that is?" Mickey asked.

"Yes, I've been there." Bräuchle finished his tea and stood slowly, stretching.


	21. Chapter 21

"What's a damn sight more interesting," McCall put the phone back in its cradle, "is that both the Company Director and the Deputy will be in Moscow in just over a week for a NATO-Russia summit."

"You think the mole will contact his associate while in Moscow?"

"I think the mole will be _contacted_ by his associate," McCall said, a glint in his eye.

Mickey picked up on the hint and let a smile roll across his face. He glanced at his watch, "So you'll be back before then?"

"I'll probably meet you in Moscow."

"You know, Isra hasn't reported in again yet."

McCall shook his head. "I know, and it has been bothering me. But we have to trust that everything is all right. If we send someone back now and the mole is keeping tabs on us, it will raise suspicion."

Mickey plopped himself onto the couch. "I wish we could just mow down the bastard on the way to work or something."

McCall simply nodded in agreement. "That would indeed make it simpler. Anyway," he grabbed his bags, "the taxi should be arriving any minute now. Listen," he turned back toward Mickey, "call me as soon as you hear from Isra. And," he pointed toward the spare bedroom where Bräuchle was sleeping, "keep your heads down."

"Don't I always?" Mickey smiled innocently and shrugged his shoulders.

McCall heard the taxi pull up and he picked up his two small bags.

* * *

Seven hours later, he embraced a fatigued-looking Scott at the airport. "Scotty, she is just getting the jitters – you know, your mother had the same wedding day nervousness."

"Dad!" Scott pleaded, "She broke it off! Completely! She said she doesn't ever want to see me again!"

McCall grabbed his bags off the conveyer belt and walked with Scott out to his car. "Did you get in a fight?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but it was no more than usual." McCall looked at him questioningly. "I mean," Scott added, "we have little disagreements here and there but that's just the way we have always been - nothing serious."

"What was it about?"

"It was so stupid – just color schemes for the wedding. She thinks I'm not helping out enough."

"Maybe she thinks you aren't serious enough about the wedding."

Scott looked at the ceiling, "Come on, I'm working on three full arrangements plus the one for the wedding – how can I concentrate on my music if I'm planning for the wedding every second of every day? I mean, I try – I really do, but she just thinks – I don't know what she thinks. Anyway, she packed up all her stuff while I was rehearsing with the symphony and when I came back, she was gone. She hasn't called, written, anything. All she left was a note that said it was over. That was four days ago."

McCall slipped into the seat next to Scott and sighed, rubbing his strained temples, "She just disappeared? Nothing else, just a brief note?"

"That's it, Dad – all there was."

"Well, you're right to be concerned. Four days is a long time to go without contact, but realistically, she is probably just teaching you a lesson."

"I called Yvette – they've really become close after meeting last year – and she said she'll call me the second she hears from Tina. But so far . . . ."

McCall tried to smile heartily for his son, "Listen Scotty, you need something to get your mind off this whole affair for a while." McCall would not tell his son this, but he was mildly worried. Tina was not the type of woman to just run out – but getting married did strange things to people. McCall wasn't sure if he could handle another personal problem in so many days, but he mentally gritted his teeth and turned on the charm. "Why don't we go to the theater tonight? I'm sure there is a good show somewhere in Tucson."

Scott shook his blond head, "No, I just don't feel up to it." He silently drove the rest of the way to his house, quietly picking up his father's bags with one hand and unlocking the house with the other. Once inside, he slumped on the couch, head in his hands for the millionth time in so few days.

McCall scanned the room; the windows and shades had all been drawn. McCall could feel the house's darkness sinking into his bones. The room's light curtains were shut, giving the living room an atmosphere of a squalid hospital. The musty smell emanating from the yellow curds of cottage cheese that had obviously lain on the coffee table for at least two or three days did not add to the room's quaintness. McCall picked up the cottage cheese with a disgusted look on his face, one hand reaching for the over-flowing garbage. This was no way for the boy to be living. "Scott, really, it has only been four days. What have you done to the place?"

Clothes, magazines, books, and other odds and ends were scattered about the main den. Scott had obviously been living out of the room since Tina had left, not bothering to clean up, probably after a hurricane of anger and frustration had taken hold of him. Scott did not answer his father, sullenly flipping the television onto the local news and staring at it with blank eyes.

When his father had left his mother and him, Scott had thought, as all small children do when parents fight, that the fault was his. He was always a very sensitive boy, and his father's absence had been especially hard on him. Other children shunned him for his natural tendency toward the arts, and he further retreated into his shell. When he first became acquainted with his father again after many years of absence, Scott and Robert had more disagreements and shouting matches than anything else. Robert couldn't understand why the boy didn't see his point of view – he had been struggling in a marriage with memories that were too painful to think about, among other problems. He and Kay had grown apart with the death of their young child, Kathy, and ever after that event, going "home" was almost more than Robert could bear. After Kathy's death, being at "home" could never be the same.

Scott, on the other hand, did not understand why his father would simply leave him and his mother. He had nightmares about the night when his father left; his father had too much luggage just to be going on another Company outing. All the postcards and letters and phone calls in the world could not make up for a father who could not hug him after he lost a baseball game or played his first full song.

The years when Scott was first re-acquainted with his father were rough. After years of hostile quibbles and tension-ridden silences, they had come to a mutual understanding – even if the understanding was a little rough sometimes. McCall knew his son was still sensitive when it came to other people accepting him, probably as a result of Scott's sensitivity relating to the divorce. Scott's childhood emotions had never fully healed.

Scott took rejection hard, sometimes slumping into depression. The best thing McCall could do was try to help Scott pull out of it. He was already trying to let the pieces fall together to solve this puzzle and trying not think about another one thousands of miles away.

If Tina had left, her own nerves shaken by the thought of a lifetime commitment, something Robert himself had felt the days before he had taken the plunge, she would not have simply disappeared off the face of the earth. In fact, having dealt with all types of people over the past few years in his role as "The Equalizer," McCall was well aware that families sometimes acted brashly, trying to protect when sometimes they only damaged. He looked at his desolate son as he fingered the portable phone near the refrigerator.

"What is Tina's parents' phone number?" McCall asked blandly as he threw the curtains open and opened the windows slightly to allow a fresh, cool breeze into the house.

Scott wrinkled his nose and blinked in annoyance at the bright light streaming into the den. He was not in the mood for Arizona's bright atmosphere right now, but he didn't have the energy to protest. "It's on the counter in the red book," Scott replied, his eyes still fixed on the television's screen.

McCall thumbed through the book until he found "Winchester." He thought it was somehow amusing that Scott, ever against his father's chosen profession, would end up marrying a woman with "Winchester" as a last name. He dialed rapidly, leaning on the sill and eventually sitting down at the table, out of immediate hearing range from Scott.

"Hello?" McCall replied to the female voice he heard respond on the other end of the phone. "Hello – this is Robert McCall . . . good, good, and you?" McCall shifted to a more comfortable position in the chair. "Yes, I just flew into Tucson to stay with Scott. He's quite broken up about the entire affair," McCall's British accent grew thicker. "The house is a disaster area. I have been encouraging him to get out but so far no luck. He is a complete wreck. I worry, you know, his mother too. He is so worried about Tina; he is making himself sick. But I can't even imagine what you are going through. Still no word from her then?" McCall heard a slight pause on the other end of the line, and he allowed himself the edges of a smile, too slight for anyone looking at him to notice. "No?" he replied after a moment, only then seeing Scott standing over him with searching eyes.

Scott's gaze fell into oblivion the moment his father said, "No."

McCall continued, "It has been four days. Have you called the missing persons division of the Police? Ah, so she has done this before, yes, I see. Well, please call us the moment you found out anything – and if there is anything we can do, just give us a ring. You know the number."

McCall sighed, gently placing the phone in the receiver and looking at his son who had returned to the television. McCall walked over and put a soft hand on Scott's shoulder, "Listen boy, these things have a way of working themselves out."

Scott's anger at the situation began to take over, and he shrugged his father's hand off his shoulder, "You and mom didn't seem to be able to 'work it out,'" he said as his eyes glowed like embers. "Why did I ever think I could make it work?" His jaws clenched in fury as he fought back the tears.

McCall knew Scott wasn't really angry at him, just angry at a situation he could not solve. But McCall had a feeling that Tina's parents were covering for her, looking after their only child after getting a one-sided story. Now that they had a better picture of what Scott was going through, McCall knew it would only be a matter of time before the description got back to Tina, and hopefully, if everything went right, she would overcome her wedding jitters and marry the man she loved.

"I know it is hard Scott, I've been there - just give it some time." Robert made some tea and gave it to the man who was his son.


	22. Chapter 22

Mickey and Bräuchle had just finished their breakfast when Mickey received a phone call from Robert. "How's it going on that end, McCall?" he used a toothpick to clean out a speck of food from his teeth. Throwing it away, he picked up another one, dipped it in glue, and added it to his masterpiece – a toothpick rendition of the Lighthouse at Alexandria. After this one was done, he would only have to do the Colossus at Rhodes before he had finished his versions of all 7 of the seven wonders of the ancient world. He had not yet started the Colossus because he had yet to figure out exactly how he was going to complete that with straight, hard toothpicks. He had already toyed with the idea of soaking them in water to create the statue, but he still hadn't decided if that was cheating or not. Instead of thinking about it, he had started the Lighthouse, a relatively easier project.

"About as well as can be expected. I figure a few days at the most. Any word from Isra?"

Mickey groaned, "None. I don't think she knows what she is doing to us over here."

"Oh I think she quite knows," McCall replied, "women have a tendency to know exactly what they are doing even if you don't."

"Ain't that the truth," Mickey stared at the half finished Lighthouse. _Maybe he would paint this one when he was finished –_ _naw, the Lighthouse wouldn't have been painted, why should his?_ "So what's the plan?"

"I will meet you in Moscow in four days. I've already made arrangements to have a courier try to contact Isra in Kosovo if she is still there."

Mickey shook his head in relief. "Gotcha." They arranged the plans and hung up the phones, confident that they were doing everything they could to iron out their respective situations.

* * *

Isra opened her eyes. Her legs were warm and starting to tingle. They had fallen asleep, crossed and resting on the porch's railing, even though she could not sleep. The cold night could not disturb her through the warm woolen clothing Habibah had lent her. She lifted her head from its resting place on the back of the old wooden chair and glanced out across the short porch to the red fire intermittently appearing in the horizon. It had started up again.

Funny how the night should appear streaked with yellow and red and green. A gentle breeze rippled across the porch, flowing through her hair. She listened to the booming in the background, strangely calming. She thought about a friend, an old friend.

There were many reasons she had joined the Company. Some very close to her heart, to her childhood in Iran. But the clincher was an event that had happened while traveling on the continent – she had met a man from Bosnia. She had traveled there with him, on the spur of the moment. And they had had a moment similar to this. Standing closely together, the smell of his cigarette entwining them both, watching his beautiful city of Sarajevo being destroyed. She was deeply reminded of that night, almost a decade ago. It was not far, Sarajevo, where he now lay, forever a piece of the soil that he loved. The bursting red cannons announcing the sleep that would never come, the life that would never be born, the signal of death. She had her own secrets, secrets from the Company, secrets from everyone. Things like the man from Sarajevo. And the man from Sarajevo's death had struck her, giving her the coldness to kill without remorse. She wanted to kill, to make them pay – those that had killed him, that had killed her family in Iran, all the nameless criminals around the world. So she chose the Company and everything it meant. But even now, she still felt like she was helping those that needed help, the silent ones who were already in their graves, and that was the most important thing in her life; it gave her life meaning.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, knowing that thousands of miles away there were two very worried people. But circumstances had forbade her from going into town to use the phone – Company agents could be anywhere – better to keep a low profile, she thought, than to get herself, Aca, and everyone else killed.

She felt as if she had been here for years, though only days had passed. She felt as if she knew the country, could feel it in her very blood, could feel her blood becoming a part of it. She could already sense changes in the weather before they were visible.

Just as she was beginning to rest comfortably, she noticed a stranger walking toward her with a fierce and purposeful stride.

* * *

Fingers drummed on a desk. "I don't like it," came a strong, intent voice. "I just don't like it. Does Kostmayer always baby-sit the apartment? Run someone over there and see what you find out. If anything goes wrong, I'll be in Moscow at the Polotzsian Hotel – you know how to find me. We have to get these Russians under wraps before the NATO-Russia conference." The phone slammed down and the figure stood up, fuming. He threw his coat over his arm, picking up his briefcase, and striding out the door.

* * *

Mickey shook his hand into the sink, splattering shaving cream everywhere. Bräuchle was sleeping in McCall's bedroom, quite worn out by fatigue and worry. In fact, all he had done these past few days was sleep. Mickey was somewhat impressed by the amount of sleep Bräuchle appeared to need.

Outside the bathroom door, a figure dressed in black with a pistol equipped with a silencer waited patiently, his hand on the knob. He heard humming from inside and slammed the door inward, hitting the figure on the inside broadside with the impact of the door. Mickey spun back, his razor creating a deep line of red on his jaw. He recovered from the attack quickly, quicker than the attacker thought was possible. Mickey swept a quick leg out, felling the attacker onto the cold tile of McCall's floor. The gun clattered across the floor, failing to fire, while its owner was out cold. Mickey felt for a pulse, found one, and let Bräuchle tie the attacker up.

* * *

Three hours later, Mickey leaned in menacingly toward the unfazed attacker. "Who do you work for?" Mickey was not above using other forms of intimidation, but he could already see they probably wouldn't work on this character. He knew his stuff.

"I ain't," sneered the attacker, "telling you nothing." He was too damn cocky for his own good – but most people lost their snideness when they were under armed watch. This guy obviously didn't care for his own life very much and intimidation would do nothing but further his puff up his attitude. Kostmayer threw his hands in the air. He couldn't call the Company, so he did the next best thing.

"Yeah, Sterno, I need a favor – babysitting job. Yeah, not much. Yeah . . . yeah, I would appreciate it – McCall too. Yeah, I'm going out of town. Great thanks, see you then." Mickey dumped the phone back into its cradle and sat down opposite the attacker. He looked vaguely familiar, probably a regular Company agent assigned to another division – but where Mickey had seen him before, he just couldn't remember. Not that it was really important – but Mickey didn't particularly want to be assigned to a mission with a clown like that – disregard for life could get everyone in serious trouble, like losing their own lives.

As soon as Mickey saw the door tumble open with Sterno on the other side, he threw his duffle bag over his shoulder and waved a quick goodbye, turning only for a moment to Bräuchle. "You're sure about these directions to Zholtok's?"

"They are accurate," Bräuchle nodded.

"Hey, when are you going to be back?" Sterno protested.

"Soon – couple a days, maybe," Mickey shouted over his shoulder as he whizzed past.

"A couple days?!" Sterno plopped himself on the couch next to Bräuchle, eyeing him and the other newcomer suspiciously. "Just like that guy . . ." he said, resigned.


	23. Chapter 23

In Moscow, a storm was brewing. It was a heavy, dark storm that brought with it ominous, black clouds and terrible winds.

Men dressed in suits fought the heavy wind, foretelling the coming of the storm. Papers scattered over the pavement, fleeing from garbage bins of their own free will. Tiny bits of dust and gravel flew through the air, biting and stinging anything in their path.

A few older gentlemen fought the wind, returning from the day's meetings, trying to make it back to their hotels before the real fury of the storm hit. One saw a red light beeping on his phone and listened to the message with a sour look on his face which quickly turned to worry. He threw on an overcoat and grabbed his umbrella, halting a taxi at the hotel's doors. He instructed the driver to take him to a small villa outside Moscow, regardless of the cost, and the driver didn't argue. Forty minutes later, he jumped out of the car with unusual youth-like spryness throwing enough rubles at the driver to make him quite happy. He made it to the door before he fingered his gun, narrowing his eyes. Turning the door's handle, he looked up and a shiver ran through him as he saw the storm thundering down upon him, relentless in its fury. He made his way through the house's abnormally dark corridors, the electricity perhaps having gone out due to the storm.

Larry Masada opened the door to Zholtok's personal office, a spacious and luxurious room. Only then did he see the pale outline of lights, their effect confusing his racing mind.

In the soft glow of the darkly light room, Masada could see the outline of Zholtok's chair. "Vitali," he breathed, "Vitali, why have you called this meeting? When the USSR fell, I was to be out. I did the favor you asked, now why have you called me here?" He feared the man in the chair, the glow of his cigar, the smoke and haze that made it purposely difficult to see.

"Vitali, the help I promised is coming. I have control of the rogue organization, finally. I just had a roadblock, but he has been taken care of. Once everything is complete, I will contact you with more information. But this is risky, I must not be seen here by my people. They will not understand. You and I, we know it is for the best, but they will not. Vitali, please. I heard rumors, rumors that you were upset. But you cannot be upset. Come, let us put these petty differences aside. I must not be cut off, not when I am so close." He took a step closer to the cigar, to the back of the leather chair. The blue haze grew thicker, and his head grew numb. He began to get scared, and his voice rose a few notches. "Vitali! Do you wish me throw away thirty years of undercover work? The USSR is dead! I cannot do what you ask without throwing it all away! I know I owe my life, my very soul to you, but please Vitali! Please! I have been so careful in infiltrating the Company. When we found out about the OSO, it was all we could do to keep it from the Americans! Their own organization! Come on Vitali, we can bridle its power for ourselves. It can be ours. It will belong to us, not to any country. Vitali! Why don't you answer me!?"

The figure turned slowly around, and he pressed a button bringing the lights up just enough to emphasize shapes in the room. Through the fog and haze, Masada wiped away the smoke, trying to make out the figure. "McCall? Robert McCall, is that you?" Larry's eyes opened with an intensity of realization.

"Cancer sticks," McCall noted as he smashed the cigar out on the table top. "I'm afraid Vitali won't be joining us tonight. He had another appointment. It seems he just wasn't as interested in power as you were – only money, something anyone can provide, for the right price."

"McCall, what do you think you are doing?" Masada's voice shook, anger taking hold of him.

"I'm catching you in the middle of a conversation about how you are a traitor to the Company and the United States. You realize what that means, don't you? Under Violation 28, the Morrison directives?"

"You have no say in the Company, McCall. Already, you have too many enemies for your own good. Whose word do you think they will believe?"

"I don't have any reason to set you up. You are in Russia, all I have to do is point the finger."

"Oh but you do. You think I killed Control. Is that it? You think I played a part, so you are coming after me."

"No, that's not what I think."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you are a KGB spy."

"The KGB does not exist anymore."

"Very clever, but you infiltrated the Company years ago, before it fell, as a KGB spy. It doesn't matter if you were never activated, you have recently shown that you still don't have any loyalty toward the United States. Otherwise, why would you let Control fall into the hands of the Serbs? Does it have to do with the OSO?"

"I don't know what the hell you are talking about, McCall. Stop babbling." He began to pull his pistol out of his pocket.

"Oh I wouldn't move too much if I were you," McCall called out, his hand on a button under the desk. "Vitali was quite helpful in pointing out his little devices. They are quite efficient."

"Why don't you get your head checked McCall. You've been helping too many people lately. You think every step someone else makes is a betrayal to you." He fingered his gun, wondering if McCall was bluffing. "You are delusional."

* * *

Black plain toebal oxford shoes made of soft calfskin climbed the one small flight of stairs, slowly, with a distinct two-sounded clap as the heel struck the polished marble floor followed by the toe. The shoes paused momentarily, as if to catch their breath, on the landing before continuing up the stairs. Even slower, they resumed their determined course, stopping in front of a door with a faint edge of light showing through the cracks. A hand rested softly on the polished brash, and the shoes waited . . . finally sounding again, ever so softly, on the marble floor.

"Let's assume that Robert is fine. Shall we?" Masada turned at the new voice. The door had opened, light streaming from the hallway, outlining a tall, gaunt figure. Masada could not see the face, and he hardly recognized the outline, but the voice was clear. The eerie mood of the room and the shifting haze played with Masada's mind. He was not sure if he was seeing a ghost, but if he ever saw a ghost, this was one. The figure was pale, his skin was gray and the haze gave it a light blue glare. Masada thought about the storm's torment outside; _it was as if the dead were returning to seek their vengeance upon the earth. Had the dead returned? This was the night, if there ever was a night for them. _

Masada turned toward Robert but kept a firm eye on the surreal figure, afraid to let the apparition disappear from sight for fear of what it might do. But McCall did not move either, his face stone silent. McCall looked like he was seeing a macabre figure that he, too, had not expected to see. His silence frightened Masada.

"You're dead," Masada whispered, his dreams of being named chairman of the OSO' offspring crashing down around him. He began to breathe quickly, fear seizing his body as it had never done before. "Your body, we found it?" His sentence began as a comment but ended as a question. Masada's eyes shimmered with the glint of realization. The figure leaned against the doorway, and he nodded at McCall who suddenly shook himself out of the initial shock and turned the lights up, their reflection off the haze not helping anything. Before Masada stood Control, as alive as ever, though his physical appearance was far from healthy. His pale, sullen face with drawn eyes made him appear as if he was indeed, a walking dead man, and his unshaven stubble made him seem different, ominous. Like the fabled phoenix, risen from the ashes, there he stood. The effect of his ghastly appearance rocked Masada, but he recovered quickly from the initial shock. No, he didn't believe in ghosts – this was a living, breathing human being.

Masada was aware that McCall was behind him, unable to see his actions. He felt like a trapped tiger, with no place to turn. Control's return would mean the OSO was out of his grips, and his Company career was destroyed.

"You planted the bloody shirt and jacket to ID the body with his blood type and his DNA," Masada snarled over his shoulder at McCall, frustration building as the truth dawned.

"You get too arrogant, and you pay the price," McCall called out. He eyed Control warily. McCall could not see him well in the dark; and he had not seen him since the field hospital, unconscious. He did not know if Control had received the message he had sent, or how Control's situation had improved after Isra's phone calls had abruptly stopped. McCall had not expected Control to turn up here, but Control had obviously received the courier's message and was well enough to make the journey – though how well was also questionable.

"Whose body was it, then?" Masada growled. "Or did you fill that canister with one of your enemies?"

"Tyler Simpson," McCall called out. "A victim of your friend, General Sivincic."

Masada shrugged, "there were more important things than Simpson."

McCall's eyes spewed distaste for the swine in front of him.

Finally, McCall asked, "You knew General Sivincic from your early years in the KGB?" It was a genuine question.

Masada let a smile curl over his face. "We were young patriots when we met. I was in the KGB; he was in the USBA, the Yugoslavian State Security Administration. We had some joint operations together, long ago, before he was a General, before I was instructed to join the Company."

McCall could see the connection now, but it was tenuous. They would have never found it if it hadn't been for Bräuchle. McCall's thoughts were disrupted by Control's voice.

"Did I interrupt your little plans to take over the OSO?" Control asked, in low tones.

Masada laughed nervously. "Is that why you blackmailed the President about its existence?"

"I wouldn't call it blackmail, Larry, let's just say I gave him other options. Besides, I had already received information that someone involved with the OSO posed a serious security risk. I didn't know who it was, but the existence of a possible mole sealed my decisions with respect to the President and his options."

"So you decided to overtake the organization before anyone else could? You've become as bad as that one," he jerked his head toward McCall.

McCall's eyes moved back to Control, in surprise, looking for a reaction.

"That's not what he tells me," Control said coolly.

Masada calculated that Control must be hurt, at least, or he would not be look so gaunt and pale. Masada figured if Control was hurt, his reflexes would be sluggish. He could take Control out and dive for it, at _least_ a 50/50 chance he would make it. He heard McCall move behind him and knew that this would give him the moment he needed. He grabbed the gun, intending to use it but stopped in mid-motion with it leveled at Control's head.

"Masada," McCall yelled, before things progressed too far. "All right, all right. You win. You see?"

Masada edged to the side of the door keeping his gun trained on Control, seeing McCall throw down his pistol from the side and stepping away from the desk. Control seemed amused at the progression of things, and he slowly raised his left hand.

"Other one!" Masada nodded at his right hand. "Slowly." Control did not argue, but Masada noted the obvious pain in his eyes as he tried to raise his other hand.

Masada kept the pistol leveled at Control, his only hope out. Control looked at him, a skeptical look in his eye. "Go ahead, Larry. Shoot. Third times a charm, right?"

"Screw you!" Masada screamed. "Durak!" he continued, now seeming to be yelling at himself for being such a fool rather than the others in the room. He hated Control's mind games. "You set this all up! Didn't you?" He shoved the gun closer to Control's face.

Control half-laughed. "Yes, I set this all up. I planned it. Just like this. Being a lab rat for your poison, my little vacation in Serbia, yes all of it." Masada's eyes began to dart around the dark room. Control noted Masada was getting nervous, and that was not good. "Well, Larry," he needed to defuse Masada's nervousness. "You have me. You have Robert. What are you going to do with us?" Control asked.

"Did you think you could take over the OSO?" Masada was getting crazed and cocky.

"I'd rather it wasn't turned into a mob rather than an intelligence organization," Control said calmly.

"Doesn't matter," Masada barked. "I can use it any way I want. You think you are so smart, but you Americans really fucked this up, didn't you? I can do whatever I want with this organization – expand it to several world markets, anything. Intelligence is only the beginning. This organization has the prospect of doing so much more, helping people."

"So you are going to help people?" McCall shook his head.

"Yes, I may have been a KGB agent in another life, but that is in my past, not my present. I have ambitions, yes, but you have not seen my distant relatives in poverty here. You have not seen what my people have gone through. You do not know. I will help people and help myself. It is a win-win situation."

Control asked quietly, "And you would threaten a child to do it?"

"I did not threaten her. I threatened you," he said simply. "You were the sacrifice for a better organization. It had to be done. This has to be done." He raised the gun and leveled it at Control's head. He was thrown off by Control's wink. Masada's smirk dropped and he began to suspect something was wrong, but before he could act, the sound of a single gunshot rang out and a searing pain flooded his hand. His pistol was flung far from his reach. He reached down for his other gun, the one he kept hidden in his boot when he heard a command.

"Don't even think about it. Hands behind your head, NOW." The voice was neither McCall's nor Control's, and he did not know where the sound was coming from, though obviously the same way the shot had come. Out of the darkness came a figure dressed in black, a Magnum leveled at Masada.

Mickey stepped out of the darkness, readjusting his gun to Masada's throat. He had been hidden by the wall in total darkness, until the proper time came.

He stepped slowly forward, his eyes trained narrowly on Kostmayer. "Is that, is that . . . Kostmayer?" Masada asked, his face with disbelief. He felt his world closing in around him, saw mouths moving but he could not make out the words. _I'm not a bad man_, he thought. He had wanted to help people, help his former country. Things . . . were just . . . just required. _Shades of gray._ He knew he would die, the OSO would make certain of that. But he would not let it happen their way, after a sham trial behind closed doors. He suddenly turned and grabbed for his gun, running directly towards Mickey's gun. He purposely forced Mickey to shoot him full in the throat, splattering blood over the room. He lay dead on the floor, a testament to his name.

McCall circled the body, his face smeared with disgust. But as he turned to Control, it filled with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Well, I'm alive. How's that?"

"It is almost better than you were the last time I saw you. Good god," McCall frowned, "you look horrid - you should be in a hospital. I told Isra only to let you leave when and if Aca didn't have any objections. What did he say? I lost contact with Isra a couple weeks ago, and you certainly don't look like you should have made the trip."

"We were out of there before Isra could raise the subject."

"She didn't 'raise the subject,' hmm?" McCall asked, incredulously.

"Well," Control paused thoughtfully, "she might have thought we were upgrading to a European clinic."

"Oh, that was wise, very wise of you," McCall said sarcastically.

"Well, I didn't want to miss all the fun," Control gestured at the room.

"Yes, I'm sure." McCall glanced at his friend. He suspected Control arrived personally to exact a little vengeance, and Masada probably had very little chance of leaving the room alive even if Mickey hadn't shot him. He decided the subject was best left alone.

Isra walked in behind Control, trying to warm herself up from Moscow's stormy air where she had been guarding the rear entrance. "Just as you said, McCall," she smiled. "I looked after the boss. Looks like you lived up to your reputation as a strategist extraordinaire," she saw Masada's crumpled body, "and you two held up your end of the bargain with the mole."

"How was he?" McCall asked, with a jerk of his head toward Control. "A good patient?"

"Depends on how expansive your definition of 'good' is." Isra's face was neutral.

"Not beyond the bounds of reason?" McCall added, wryly.

"I found the tempest could be quelled with a few obsolete Arabic newspapers . . . . But the sedatives were more handy."

McCall laughed and turned to Control, "I like her."

Control ignored the retort and tried to ignore the conversation, generally. The afternoon's small exertion had worn him out more than he cared to admit.

"Thanks for the spending cash before you left," Nasari added, talking to McCall. "It funded at least a year's supply of food for the field hospital and its staff when we left."

McCall inclined his head. "I was wrong about you," he stood taller. He could admit his mistakes, "You proved that big things come in small packages."

She shrugged, "It's helpful to have an element of surprise."

Mickey and McCall looked at the little agent with newfound respect. "I might have to borrow your services from time to time," McCall noted.

Isra's eyes glittered. "I'd love to, if I'm in town. I'll even volunteer them. But for now, there are too many people in New York, and it is too cold. Control is sending me down south, where it is warmer, for a while. I'm off to a nice little vacation in Chiapas."

At the words "vacation in Chiapas," Mickey and McCall shook their heads incredulously.

* * *

On their way back out of Vitali's house, the two veteran operatives let Kostmayer and Nasari clean up while they slowly walked outside. "Really, a vacation in Chiapas?" McCall asked.

"She thinks infiltrating the Zapatistas as a female guerilla fighter will be a nice 'change of pace' from the last few months. She had a choice for something easier, but she convinced the Mexican desk officer a full bore operation was a better fit. And you know," Control paused, squinting down the hallway entrance toward the door, "she might just do it."

McCall snorted in response. "She might, indeed; she was able to follow you when you picked up the microdot in Central Park."

Control turned on his heel, sharply. "What?"

"Yes," McCall smiled slightly, "She's good. Very good. I'll give her that. So," he looked at Control, "she filled you in on all the details?"

"No, she left out a few key ones – like what was in those photos you found – I had to glean it from the courier's message."

McCall considered that Control had probably been, at best, a half-willing prisoner in Aca's basement after being transferred from the hospital, coming out of sedation, and before figuring out the details. _She was exactly right_, McCall thought. If Control had been filled in earlier, he would have become a caged lion, and he would have torpedoed his own recovery. The situation was also a bit ironic. "She gave you a version of the truth, then?"

"Yes, a _version_." Control furrowed his brow in annoyance.

"Oh Control," McCall said, his eyes twinkling, "You can be very proud. Your people trained her _very_ well, very well indeed." Finally, he stopped Control with a hand, turning serious. "Listen, a moment, please." McCall paused.

Control looked back at him, expectantly, _what was it this time?_

McCall pointed at him, "Speaking of versions of the truth, you didn't tell me the whole story either," he stated matter-of-factly, "and I would like to clear up one or two things before we get out of here."

Control furrowed his brow, not pleased but not protesting, either.

"I believe what you told me about the OSO, in general terms, was true enough. But you received word about the OSO _before_ Kostmayer's team was accidentally ambushed. From the Central Park delivery, probably; perhaps you heard whispers about it before then. So, one of the agents that you like to place here and there to keep their ears open happens to find out about the OSO. Maybe through one of your Exden operations. They immediately run to you to inform you of its existence. The embassy incident confirmed your suspicions – or at least gave you solid evidence of the OSO's existence and activities that you could take to – let's say – a congressional committee. That would be an impeachable offense, wouldn't it? An abuse of power indictment against the President?"

Control narrowed his gaze, a stern look upon his face.

"Well, if you're not going to say anything . . . " McCall waited for a moment before continuing. "You also unearthed Bräuchle recently and concluded that _someone_ with knowledge of the OSO had been a sleeper agent for years. So, you had to act and quickly. You met with the OSO leaders – not at their request but at _your_ prompting. You didn't mention the mole – probably because you hadn't fingered Masada yet – but with your evidence of the organization's existence, you had enough to destroy the OSO and take the President out of office. So you had quite a bit of room to deal. And you had a tempting idea to pitch – you could offer them decades of knowledge. Your condition? You would not be a member, but you'd run the bloody thing!"

Control groaned, swearing under his breath, but McCall went on, "I can see it now. The President figures you are motivated by lust for power; this appointment will sate you, and he'll still have his toy. But you have something else in mind. And you have the power to make him deal. If he doesn't play along with you, he either has to reconsider his shadow agency or roll you up, and you had already taken temporary precautions against the latter by placing Isra on a security detail. He has access to the Exodus file, and he knows what she is capable of. He doesn't really have a choice – he doesn't want to lose his dirty little shadow agency.

"Are you through?" Control said, sourly.

"Oh, I'm not finished yet, Control. No, no. I will go on."

Control sighed, "Can you?"

"Your condition," McCall's voice rose slightly, "was that you be allowed to leave the Company. A political appointment as presidential advisor, perhaps? A play out of Jefford's playbook? The Company can't touch a political appointee - it would be _very_ messy. And, while you are acting Executive Director, you are currently in a perfect position to name your successors for Northern and Southern Control, which will strengthen your hold on the OSO _and_ internal Company politics. Which means, in essence, you can shut the OSO down at any time – particularly at the opening of a new administration – whether you will or not is another question . . . . I'm sure Eisenhower had the best of intentions as well . . . and, anyway, the OSO will be protecting your hide as much as anything else."

"Not if I move to Bermuda," Control finally decided to stop this guesswork of Robert's.

"You bloody hate Bermuda," McCall said emphatically.

Control rolled his eyes.

"So," McCall continued, "your intentions are to end this OSO fiasco and get out of the Company without the dreaded red-tag. You, conveniently, retain all the power you held at the Company and more, a great deal more. But you will be able to leave the Company and retire a private citizen. As Chairman of the OSO, until it is shut down, you can keep a careful eye on the business of the country here _and_ abroad. And _if_ it is ever shut down, you conveniently disappear, off the Company radar."

Control was staring hard at McCall; finally, he turned away. "You were always so astute, Robert." He paused. "Look," he glanced back, "you chose your way out of the Company, now let me choose mine."

"The problem," McCall put a warning finger in Control's chest, "is that you don't have any idea whether you can convince the next president to shut this thing down. So you don't know how long you will be tethered to the most dangerous organization I have ever heard of. And it has got its tether around _your_ neck."

Control sullenly replied, "don't remind me."

McCall lifted his warning finger again. "Make no mistake about it, what you are trying to do is laudable, but if the opportunity arises, they will hang you out to dry with this. You have positioned yourself in a dangerous situation, and you will become the most convenient target if the lid blows. You might well bring down this organization, but it just might tumble down and take you along with it. And that will make all of this," he waved his hand at the past few days' events, "look like child's play."

Control exchanged glances with him, a wary look on his face.

"You do realize you've worked 40 years for the Company, building up your career and your reputation on the inside, and on the outside, you've been able to protect the integrity of your name. But if this organization tumbles and it takes you with it, your name – your _real_ name – will be dragged through the mud. Forty years won't count for anything. Your friends at the Company, our colleagues – all of them – will turn on you. They will all think you are a traitor. You won't have anywhere to turn, you'll probably be the first person executed for treason since the fifties, and frankly, you'll be lucky to get a grave on American soil."

"I've evaluated the risks, Robert." He said quietly, gazing toward the distance. "Some things are worth more than my name."

* * *

Control arranged private transportation from Moscow the following day at a field on the outskirts of Moscow (how—McCall did not ask, but he suspected it had to do with Control's new position; the accommodations were certainly a step up from the regular Company per diem). In the meantime, Robert was still concerned by Control's appearance, but so far he appeared to be holding up well. Just for safety's sake, however, he decided to keep put a night watch in Control's hotel room.

Mickey volunteered as soon as he had heard the plan. "Hey McCall, if you and Isra are tired, I'll stay up. I'm too pumped full of energy after today to try to sleep."

"Agreed," McCall shrugged.

Mickey found a small television in Control's room, and he flipped it on. Luckily, it got cable, so he found a few American shows.

Around four in the morning, Control opened his eyes, hearing faint sounds. He turned his head slowly toward a flickering light in the corner of his eye. He watched the images for a moment, and then mustered enough energy to say, "Mickey, Jerry Springer?"

Mickey jumped. "Christ, Control, it's a good thing I didn't have my gun on me. How are you feeling?"

Control coughed hard, ignoring Mickey's question.

Mickey looked at the TV and tossed his hands in the air with a bashful smile. "I like a good staged fight, what can I say."

"Then stop staring so intently at the 1-900 commercials."

"Hey," Mickey grinned, "you're not human if you don't look."

McCall walked in. "Well, I can't sleep – Control, are you awake?" His tone indicated he did not approve.

"Mickey," Robert put a fatherly hand on Mickey's back, "go back to my room and get some sleep." Noticing for the first time, or rather, his mind processed for the first time in a hectic day that Mickey had a rather gaping gash on his face. "Where in the world did you receive that?"

"This?" Mickey pointed at the cut, "Oh, I just cut myself while shaving." He sauntered out, flipping off the TV on his way out.

* * *

_Control awoke once again, the heavy daze unrelenting._ He was vaguely aware of a presence sitting next to him, monitoring his improvement during Isra and Aca's absence. She was a small woman, her dark, soft olive eyes unmoving from his own. He broke her gaze, her intensity unsettling him. Something within her broke through his protective isolation in a glance, and he knew he could hide nothing from her. Somehow he knew she was a woman of many names, whereas he was of no name – like one and the same.

"Mgeni, your soul hurts me when I try to touch it," she whispered. "It is jagged, like the edges of broken glass. But it is covered, treacherous in its hiding, afraid of being broken again. It is hidden in gray ashes, as if no one would look in a dead fire for life. But I can see it now, for I have stepped on the glass and uncovered its edges." Her stare, which might be considered violating, merely confused him. He could not tell if this was a dream or reality or a dream from reality.

She leaned forward, touching his arm lightly, like a mother reassuring a child. "Mgeni," she again addressed him in the foreign manner, "you are a man with much heshima," she broke into her native tongue. "But it masks your broken heart. I can feel your pain, Mgeni, and it is deep."

She continued to gaze at him, as if reaching deep into him, beyond him, beyond his physical confines . . . deeper . . . deeper . . . farther . . . farther. His head was spinning, the woman in front of him changed, shifted, and returned. He knew he was delusional, but he was caught in a moment of endless time.

Her soft words broke the stillness, but the stillness was not broken. It merely absorbed her voice as it had her touch. "Mgeni, you are not yourself. You are other than yourself. You must return to yourself to find peace." His eyes watched, wishing away the medicine but needing the solitude. "Mgeni . . . please . . ." she pleaded. He could feel a lightness rising in his chest, and her eyes filing with an unspeakable pain. "I can help you." And for that brief instant, he could feel hope again. His mind was separated from his body: clear, free, and light.

She looked at him, having a private conference with his hidden self, his conscious self unknowing. She inclined her head, as if hearing a question. "No," she looked at him as if he should know exactly what she meant. "The answer to the question in your soul is no. There is no pepo. I feel no evil spirit. You are afraid to face the mashetanti, the little spirit, for you think she is a pepo. She follows you, but she does not harbor ill will toward you. She is not upset. She understands. It was not your fault. But, she longs for something. I hear her yearning . . . . Oh, I see her. She is beautiful. She longs for an embrace, for acceptance. If you have unease in your heart, she cannot rest. Think of her with joy in your heart, not sorrow. That is all she asks. Can you not give it to her?" The darkness of sleep and medicine and pain washed over him, breaking the one instant he never wanted to leave. Her dark face glided into the twilight of a deep sleep. When he awoke again at the hotel in Moscow, he could not tell if this was a dream of a dream, or a memory of reality, or a dream of a memory.

* * *

Mickey unloaded the last equipment bag into the taxi van, chatting with Isra as he worked. ". . . Yeah, so McCall was right, of course, and Tina's family was covering for her. They had heard only her side of the story, but when they were alerted to Scott's distress, including the disgusting state of his house, and that message had been relayed onto Tina, she finally realized she had been acting out of misplaced anger. Anyway, she felt that Scott had been through enough and that he had learned his lesson. So she returned, forgave him, and they will be married in Tucson on Valentine's Day. Or, at least, that's the way McCall tells it."

Isra shook her head, "the exploits you people have are amazing!"

"Better than a TV show," Mickey returned lightheartedly.

* * *

The young naval lieutenant commander saluted as he saw Control slowly exit the van for the helicopters. Control's face hinted on displeasure, but he composed it into uncaring firmness. "Now what in the world are you saluting for, son?" he asked over the roar of the helicopter's blades. "I'm not in the military."

"Sir," the lieutenant commander grinned, "no sir," he winked and straightened his flight suit. "I've been instructed by HQ to return you to Zagreb where a Gulfstream 4 will transport you home to Bethesda Naval Hospital to check you over before releasing you back to New York."

Control nodded, too worn out to care. Two other men hopped out and helped McCall, Kostmayer, and Nasari into the helicopter. The commander waited until they were in the chopper before speaking to Control. "Sir," he was forced to speak loudly over the sound of the blades; although he was sure no one in the chopper could hear him, "Sir, have these people been informed of the operation running this rescue mission?"

Control realized the pilot was asking whether they worked for the OSO and if they did not, whether the pilot was cleared to dispose of them. He looked at the officer's insignia and replied, "Commander, these people think the USG was a little overzealous in its rescue attempt. They know nothing else, and if they heard you say that, you could very well get some innocent people killed. Now let's get out of here."

"You're the C.I.N.C., sir." The officer helped Control onto the VH-60 Blackhawk helicopter. The pilot was a Marine, a major, giving them the thumbs up signal before taking off. The lieutenant commander climbed into the co-pilot seat. He didn't get to fly choppers much, but he enjoyed it when he could. The other two helicopters hovered nearby, flanking the Blackhawk. McCall could tell they were AH-64 Apaches, deadly escorts.

The pilot tapped his controls and radioed in HQ. "This is Team leader delta-niner-niner-zulu-alpha. Contact with the phoenix has been established." He glanced back at his passengers and flipped his radio transmission switch off for a moment. "Hey, the codename was picked before this even happened." Flipping the radio back on, he continued. "I have CAVU flying conditions. Request permission to proceed to base. Over."

"D99ZA, request granted. Good to hear that you have ceiling and visibility unlimited. Weather patterns were unclear until late this afternoon. Bring 'em home – the only way you aren't getting into base today with our new C.I.N.C. is if we get a ceiling zero reading in the next twenty minutes, but it should be blue skies all the way. Command over and out."

* * *

After the chopper landed in Zagreb, the young commander watched the small group exit the aircraft.

As they walked with their heads down away from the wind of the blades, Control stopped suddenly, turning to McCall. "Listen, Robert," he turned deadly serious, "I can only cover for you so far, here. So, I'm going to make a proposal to you."

"Which is?" McCall narrowed his eyes.

"Which is that you come onboard as an advisor to the OSO."

"Oh you're not dragging me into this!"

"Robert," Control stopped him from following the others, "I'm serious. This is going to take time and manpower to change. It doesn't happen overnight. The OSO isn't used to being common knowledge."

"I wouldn't really call myself common," McCall said, dryly.

"You know what I mean. Masada's death won't pass without an inquiry, and it doesn't take a genius to guess how much you knew. You can't say I didn't warn you that this was information that you didn't want. Anyway, if I can point to an advisory status, you are free and clear. It is like your Company status – it serves its purpose."

"Yes, well you know how I feel about that. And what about Mickey?"

"We'll arrange something for him too. And anyway, he might need some financing to help take over your little equalizing business while you are away helping the OSO. And vice versa."

McCall shook his head, "No, no, no. This is why I got out of the Company, and I will not be dragged back into that world."

"I thought," Control paused, letting the word dangle. "I thought you already promised."

"You were sedated and almost dead – we didn't even know if you'd live through the night." McCall protested, "You can't possibly have been conscious."

"I have my sources," Control smiled.

McCall looked at his old friend with an incredible stare, "No, you absolutely cannot hold deathbed promises against me."

"Look, Robert," Control was serious again, "You've got the chance to really make a difference here. I can't reform the OSO by myself – you think I wanted to take on this job? Of course not, but I did it – didn't I? Because it has to be done. This has to be done. You want the ultimate odds against you? Well here it is, right here. And . . ." he paused, "I need you. You know I will kiss your ring, if I have to."

"You're just not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"No." Control knew McCall would come around, eventually; this was exactly the sort of thing McCall wouldn't be able to leave alone. Nevertheless, it might take a while to get McCall to acknowledge it.

"Damn you, Control. How about this, I'll give you my answer when we get back, how about that? I'll even put it in writing – very succinct writing for you."

"Don't be glib, McCall," Control growled.

Changing the subject as they walked within earshot of the others again, McCall asked "Control, I would love to know – when you were medically dead, did you see a white angelic light or a devilish red glow?"

Without skipping a beat, Control answered, "Actually, Old Son, I saw a greenish haze, and I didn't know what the hell that meant. So, I figured I should come back long enough for them to get it fixed.

McCall shook his head, and they ducked into the car together.


	24. Epilogue

When McCall arrived at home, needing a shower and long rest, he found two unexpected items waiting for him. Outside his apartment, he spotted a brand new black Jaguar S-Type, pre-release model sitting in his normal parking spot. He eyed it warily and found that the keys were lying on his kitchen table next to a small white box. Opening this slowly, he saw the shimmer of metal inside. He delicately fingered the box's contents, clenching his jaw as he pulled out the Distinguished Intelligence Medal – one of the Company's highest honors. He read the simple, short note beside it saying only, "Thank you, Old Son" and "unreturnable – box already opened" with an arrow either toward the keys or the medal in a familiar scrawl.

* * *

The same morning, in the bitter cold, curls of foggy breath dispersed as mourners began to separate and wander slowly back to their respective cars. The funeral was a sobering experience, as always, when old friends or family die – especially so unexpectedly.

A long black stretch limo pulled up to the circular curb, and the driver waved the other limo away, replacing the old car with the new. The back door opened, but no one got out. As the car waited, mourners moved slowly toward the rounded driveway where other cars were parked. A little girl with blond curls bobbing brightly skipped ahead of the adults, unaffected by the gravestones near her. She didn't seem to mind the cemetery; although she had been uncharacteristically shy and quiet during the service. As she skipped, she felt a gentle hand spin her around, and she flashed a bright smile at Clint Hughes. He pointed toward the car, and she noticed her chariot awaiting, pulled by four gleaming white horses, and there was her coachman, opening the door for her. The chauffeur had a gift for her, a beautifully carved statute of an Arabian mare; the horse's watchful gaze distant, aloof. She ran swiftly through the crowd, her eyes lighting up, not pausing for the coachman's gift, for she saw someone inside that made her tummy leap with delight. The clock hands had rewound, spinning their way into the past, before the funeral, before the unexpected phone call from Robert McCall, before the events of the New Year and the grief it had brought. The fresh gravestone forgotten, she threw her arms open for a hug as she dived into the car, twinkling eyes, a delightful and innocent smile on her face.

- FIN -


End file.
